Downy Feathers
by BravoExpressions
Summary: A collection of one-shots/scenarios from 'The Sam Saga' of the years that were never witnessed, detailing Mary's and Marshall's journey of the other four stories in pieces. T for language, but if you know my style, you know it's minimal.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: Oh, dear and loyal reviewers; I don't know what I'd do without you. I've said it a million times; I never expected Sam and the gang to take me this far, but believe me when I tell you that this is their final tale (and you've heard that before too, I know.)**

**Here is the deal with what I have dubbed "Downy Feathers." It is a collection of what I guess you would call one-shots, showing significant or particularly poignant portions of Mary's and Marshall's years with Sam that we missed. Since we jumped from six months pregnant, to a brief bout with a two-month-old, to eighteen months, seven years, and twelve with a few flashbacks in-between, there are chunks we never saw. My idea of a one-shot is basically just a specific instance; sometimes it'll last for more than one 'scene' but each portion I chose to write has its own individual chapter; none of them span more than one. Although this means some are pretty lengthy, they all stay in their own little 'pocket' before we move on again. Does that make sense?**

**I concede there are plenty more chapters in Sam's early years, I guess because I felt the need to show the steps of Mary's and Marshall's early relationship, as well as the fact that I believe little ones change more rapidly than the older kids. Plus, I had a lot happen in the prior stories before Sam was even two what with Seth and James and Jesse and who knows what else. Just as an FYI, in the shots were Mary is still pregnant the 'three months' or 'two months' header means she's three months away from having him, not three months pregnant (but I hope the month references help with that.)**

**ANYWAY. Good lord. You're going to give up on me before you even get started with that kind of introduction. I just wanted it all to make sense, because it is a little bit different from anything else I've ever written. The single pieces (chapters) fit with the other four stories as applicable, but obviously there will be no flow to the chapters; it's chunked. "Downy Feathers" refers to fragments, pieces, as well as my fondness for Sam's soft hair.**

**Enjoy!**

XXX

_Pre-Sam, Three Months, July:_

Those infernal knocks on the door always came at the most inopportune time, Mary thought. Why this still surprised her, she'd never know. Anyone coming to the house was always a shock, so when you thought about it _every_ occurrence was ill-timed.

Still, Mary didn't enjoy rushing to the hatch while she was still hitching her jeans up and trying to make sure her fly wasn't undone. That'd be a nice surprise for some unsuspecting witness – a little tease before she pinned them to the ground for daring to arrive at her home unannounced.

But when she finally made it to the knob – slower than usual thanks to her current condition – she found not some jittery ex-bookkeeper, but Marshall. He wore an awkward, nervous grin, holding a white paper sack in one hand and a plastic grocery bag in the other.

"Hi…" she managed, perhaps a little uneasy herself.

She'd just seen him two hours ago. What was her problem?

"Hey," he reciprocated. And then, shuffling his feet a few times, "You…mind if I come in?"

"Oh…" Mary knew she was being dumb and stepped aside. "Right…"

But even once he was in, he didn't have anything to say. They just stood there stupidly, Marshall rustling his bags, Mary contemplating whether she'd dashed out of the bathroom too quickly. She might still have to pee.

But the bizarre, vain part of herself that she so despised told her she was feeling conspicuous having Marshall see her all laid bare in her own home. She still had her jeans on, sure, but she'd changed into some old Jersey City T-shirt from when she'd been in college. It was a men's medium and actually fit over her round belly; she was a sight all together.

Still, she didn't want Marshall to feel like he'd come at a bad time. They were both new at this.

"You don't…" she finally spit out. "…Have to knock."

Had she really just said that?

"Only, don't put that word on the street," she tried to be funny. "Can't have it getting back to Brandi and Jinx."

Marshall managed to chuckle, "Right," and then he got on with it, "I brought you dinner…" he held up the white sack. "You said you weren't going to pick anything up on the way home, so I thought…"

His voice trailed away, and Mary knew he was wondering if he'd overstepped his boundaries. Mary didn't like being coddled or doted on, but she'd been trying really hard to let him in-in small doses lately.

"I _guess_ that's nice…" she rolled her eyes, trying to get him to play along and fall back into their usual rhythm. "Depends on what it is…"

She stuck her neck way out to peer at the contents, and Marshall immediately unfurled the top of the bag so she could see. Mary inhaled and caught the delicious, warm-seasoned scent of spaghetti, meatballs, and garlic bread from one of her favorite Italian restaurants downtown. How could she say no?

"All right," she snatched the snack and offered a mischievous wink. "You're in the good books – for now."

With that, she shuffled – well, waddled – into the kitchen to get some silverware to dig in. Marshall followed, standing on the opposite side of the counter while she pulled out a knife and a fork. He put his second sack on the counter, which made Mary curious.

"What's behind door number two?" she jerked her head as she delved for the food.

"I thought we could watch a movie," he was getting into it now, looking wily with his telltale smirk. "Sounds like tomorrow will be slow at the office; we've got time to hang out, peruse, laugh, review…"

Mary narrowed her gaze, flicking her eyes upward to meet his in her standard glare.

"What movie?"

Marshall was not deterred and continued to bore into her with his silly little grin. He put a hand into the plastic sack and pulled out a DVD with a great, dramatic flourish, including much waving of his arms and hands.

"A classic," he proclaimed merrily.

Mary, sneering appropriately, slipped the box out of his fingers and scanned the cover. It showed a man and a woman mooning over each other; a typical rom-com she was disdainful of.

Mary snorted at once, putting the case on the counter and sliding it back to Marshall. "Nice try," she praised. "Actually, no. Awful try. No way. Off your usual game."

She snickered and scoffed at the same time, head back in the bag of food, pulling out a second, smaller pouch of bread.

"You tell yourself whatever you want, doofus," she was feeling marginally more comfortable now that they were playing around. "You ain't selling me the drivel of the rom-com."

"You haven't even _seen_ it," Marshall protested, sounding remarkably whiny. "Give it a chance."

Mary just shook her head in response, digging for her container of spaghetti that was resting at the bottom of the sack. She groped for Marshall's for a moment, before she realized hers was the only one inside. She even peered further in just to make sure, but there was just a single portion.

"Marshall; they forgot yours…" she clucked her tongue disapprovingly. "That's why I tell you; check in the car, that way you can go back and raise hell and get out of footing the bill too…"

"I didn't order any," her partner eventually cut her off. "There was only supposed to be one."

"What?" Mary was perplexed, wrinkling her nose and peeling the lid off her container at the same time. "What do you mean you didn't get any; why not?"

"Ah," he shrugged unconcernedly. "Wasn't really hungry."

It took Mary a moment, but she understood when her fork was halfway to her mouth with the first bite of noodle-goodness. She actually paused in midair as the realization hit. Marshall had gone just for her; because she ate like a cow these days and he'd wanted to please her. Because they were…

_What_ exactly? _Together_ now?

She didn't know how she felt about it, and she knew it was one of the many things she'd be turning over in her mind as she lay alone in bed that night. Ever since her and Marshall's trip to Kansas just a few weeks before, things had been decidedly different and she was really trying as they ventured cautiously in, but she wanted to remain true to herself. She didn't want Marshall feeling as though he had to tend to her or give her some proverbial sun and moon just to tickle her. She wasn't that girl.

"You thirsty?" was all she could think of to say.

It was neutral. It was safe. It would not make him feel like he'd done something wrong. It would not make _her_ feel like _she'd_ done something wrong.

"I could go for a beverage," he knew what she was doing and made his way around the counter.

"Help yourself…" she thrust her thumb over her shoulder to indicate the fridge and Marshall did as told.

While he stuck his head in the confines, she continued scarfing down the spaghetti and meatballs, which she was making short work of; she barely tasted them, she was going so fast. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she heard Marshall chuckle from the fridge.

"Why do you still have wine in here?" he wanted know. "You're not drinking it, are you?" he wasn't accusatory, just poking fun.

"No," she shook her head around bites. "It's leftover. Not like I can bum it onto Jinx or Brandi – with Peter in the house."

"Well, I'll see if I can take it off your hands," he offered, coming up with a bottle of white and stepping to the cabinets to find a glass.

Meanwhile, Mary was practically salivating over the noodles – their rich, marina sauce, perfectly seasoned with just a hint of spice. The way she could scoop up way more than usual in one bite because they were not too long and not too short. Bliss.

"Oh my God, Marshall…" she moaned, mouth full. "These are amazing…"

He laughed as he poured his wine, "Don't go all bottomless pit on me."

"Hey; I'm eating for two, I'm allowed," she told him swiftly.

"You ate for two before the rug-rat," he reminded her. "What's that an equivalent of?" he turned, wine in hand, sipping sedately. "You feeding three now? Four?"

"We'll just go with a small army," it was how she felt, so why not get credit for it.

So busy enjoying her pasta, Mary almost jumped when Marshall reached out his free hand and put an arm around her back. The contact made her flutter a little, made her more aware of her condition for some reason, like she'd let her guard down. Part of her was scared and wanted to run, but the other part liked it. He wasn't intrusive – he was just there.

She slowed her inhalation of dinner and looked up at him, woven in next to her. He was smiling sweetly, and she recalled how thoughtful he'd been to bring her a meal after a long day at work. But his smile was also inquisitive, a little rascally like he knew something she didn't.

"You've got…sauce…" he managed not-too-awkwardly. "On your mouth…"

Of course she did. But Mary dove at the opportunity and instead of becoming embarrassed; she stretched on tiptoe and gave him a kiss. She felt his lips sneak over in the middle and lap up whatever had been left on her mouth. It made her tingly all over and that same feeling of wanting to stay rooted to the spot combined with wanting to bolt returned in full-force.

"Mmm…" he said when they parted. "Very scrumptious…" he smacked his gums together in that corny way of his.

Mary knew he meant the spaghetti, but the laugh she offered was feeble trying to giggle at his joke. She also couldn't help noticing the sudden change in the look on his face; his eyes were downcast and he tried to turn away, but she'd already seen.

"What?" she prompted.

Her eyes strayed to the floor to see if maybe she'd dropped something, but evidently that wasn't it.

"Your…" he started gesturing with his hand, trying to stay casual. "Your…" he repeated himself. "Your…pants are undone."

Goddamn it. _Now_ she was embarrassed. She must've missed the zipper after all in her rush to the door, and when she'd lengthened up to kiss Marshall, her shirt had hitched on her belt loop.

Sheepishly, she did them up as quickly as she could; crossing her arms over what little there was of her middle. This was _awful_. How would they ever learn to be more comfortable about a relationship?

"You know, lets…lets watch the movie," she finally said to fill the silence.

Marshall was plainly kicking himself for having brought up what he had, and Mary hated that look in his eyes. Fresh off Seth's passing just two weeks prior, it returned at the oddest moments and it killed her.

"Only if you want to," Marshall was easy. "Honestly, it was just a suggestion…" he went on. "We can blow it off and…I don't know…" he shrugged. "Talk."

That would be even worse. No, definitely the movie.

"No, let's take a look at your show…" she waved him into the living room. "I'm skilled at tuning things out, so I can always do that if I don't like it."

Marshall chuckled appropriately and, smartly, settled himself in one of the chairs in front of the television while Mary put the disc in the machine and headed off to the couch so she could put her feet up. Marshall's choice of residence also meant he didn't necessarily expect them to sit together.

But Marshall learned very quickly that he was most certainly getting the short end of the stick on this deal. He couldn't remember ever watching a movie all the way through with Mary, and he immediately saw why. She never shut up.

She huffed and puffed as she shifted herself further into the pillows, placing her socked feet on the armrest at the other end. She wished she'd just changed out of her jeans and although the shirt was roomy and comfortable, the waistband on the pants was making her belly feel uncomfortably tight.

Part of Marshall enjoyed the old snark punching its way through, even if he did still feel a little funny perched across the room from her. He knew she did too; that was why she was talking so much. It was a vicious cycle.

Unfortunately, it did take a few more disdainful comments throughout before she settled down – about how pitiful and pathetic the characters were.

But Marshall was patient, waiting her out, pointing out the sweet, yet subtle moments in the film, thinking she might soften up. He never fancied Mary a romantic, but he knew he'd be paying for his suggestion if she ended up hating the whole thing.

"I love that line," he mused quietly.

"Which one?" Mary was chewing on her thumbnail.

"Talking about his daughter," Marshall clarified, referring the leading man. "He knows both he and his significant other deserve the credit for raising the child. It takes two."

That one worked, at least momentarily. He could tell from the look on Mary's face that she was pondering the sentiment. Parents, mothers, fathers, and children had been on her mind a lot as of late. Though she hadn't said, he knew she was worried she'd make a crummy mom.

"I'm still hungry," was her heartfelt response, and she was about to lift herself up, but Marshall decided to do his duty as the…

What? Guest? Partner? Friend? Boyfriend?

"What do you want?" he asked before she could rise. "I'll grab you something."

Fortunately, Mary chose acceptance.

"Gonna have to keep you around as housekeeper," she teased. "There's popcorn above the stove," she went on. "Grab yourself a few kernels, partner."

"Don't mind if I do," Marshall agreed.

He wouldn't have thought so at the time, but his brief absence from the scene seemed to do just the trick for the pair of them. While he stood in the kitchen, microwave making its droning hum, Mary turned quiet and introspective, relaxing into the movie just as he'd hoped. He watched her slump further down on the throw pillows, watched a hand float onto her belly and come to rest there because she thought he wasn't looking.

"I guess this isn't that bad…" she whispered suddenly.

But Marshall knew he wasn't expected to respond, to pretend not to have heard. Instead, he grabbed the bag of popcorn and emptied it into a bowl before rejoining her.

"At your service…" he teased, stooping into a goofy bow as he reached the coffee table, holding the bowl like a platter.

Mary rolled her eyes, but he was startled to see her wiggle herself down the length of the couch as though to make room for him.

"You can't get your hands on the grub over there," she jerked her head at the chair he'd vacated. "Come on."

She _was_ making room for him. Marshall could hardly ignore a request so great.

He sat, swinging his long legs onto the couch and Mary inched herself into his groove so she was practically in his lap. Marshall's heart began to race having her so close. They hadn't gone this far since his father's funeral two weeks before, and the rush returned in full force. He'd started to believe it hadn't been real.

He was afraid of what to do with his hands. There was really no place to put them other than around her waist, but her waist was her belly these days and she was very sensitive about that area.

"I'm not…" he articulated behind her ear. "I know you're not a Buddha," he managed lamely. "But my fingers are kind of squished here."

They couldn't even do _this_ right, but Marshall took the silence for acceptance and wove his hands where they rightfully belonged, one on either side of her protruding stomach.

"This may have some merit after all," Mary admitted to avoid the persisting awkwardness. "At least this guy's buddy keeps him in check when he gets too pompous."

"Like the supporting role, do you?" Marshall asked, only able to see the top of her honey blonde waves.

"Mmm hmm," she hummed. "He reminds me of you."

Marshall was taken aback, "How so?"

She shifted just a little in his arms, trying to get comfortable.

"Brains, wit, and principles," she said shortly.

Marshall was unexpectedly touched; Mary didn't _do_ mushy, and to be fair she had tried not to be. She'd just tried to be complimentary, tried to break the ice. It was easier when she didn't have to look at him. But he was still raw from Seth dying, vulnerable with the pregnant woman he'd spent eight years loving, and he couldn't help it.

"That's nice of you to say," he murmured.

He could tell she was grinning, "Don't get used to it."

Silence fell once more, but it was kinder to them on this front. Mary sighed and nudged herself into him a little more, liking his strong, long and lean body compressed with hers. After what he thought was an appropriate amount of time, Marshall started to run his fingers through her hair, resting his chin lightly on the top of her head.

"Do we suck at this?" she asked awhile in, completely out of nowhere and distracting from the tail end of the movie.

"Do we suck at what?"

Another sigh – a consideration.

"I don't know," she murmured uncertainly. "Being…_we_?"

"No," he whispered confidently; chin not leaving her head, fingers not stopping their rhythm. "We're finding our way – a little slowly, I admit."

"I don't mind slow," Mary found herself admitting.

Marshall was inclined to agree, "Me either."

The pattern resumed; Marshall had the distinct feeling that Mary was falling into a trance, maybe even falling asleep, but he just let it ride. His emotions were too close to the surface for him to trust himself ruining it with fresh memories of their time together at Seth's passing. He was still sensitive.

And even the thought had him shuddering back to reality without thinking.

He hadn't meant to startle Mary and she turned to gaze up at him, perfectly awake, big green eyes meeting his soft blue ones, dancing with the dulled light of unwise reminiscence.

"You okay?" she was casual, but concerned.

"Fine," he assured her. "Just thinking."

"Not too hard I hope," she wouldn't turn back around.

"Likely."

She did understand, and faced the screen once more, but she reached for the hand that was resting at the side of her belly and took it in hers. It was all the coaching Marshall needed.

"It still hurts sometimes," he divulged. "At the most unexpected moments, I think of him."

She squeezed hard; harder than he was used to, but it was so jarring it was comforting.

"I know," she assured him evenly. "Two weeks isn't very long."

No, it wasn't. It wasn't at all, and yet Marshall hardly dared to believe how much had changed in just fourteen days. He'd lost his father, but he had Mary. He actually _had_ Mary. Whether he kept her or not was an issue best left for down the road, but you couldn't replace this time as they lay entwined in each other's arms, an unborn little boy resting nearby.

When Mary exhaled for the third time and turned her head so her profile rested against his chest, he knew all he had to do was reflect on today to get through whatever might lie ahead. Everything he needed was wrapped up in one single moment, and he'd cherish it forever.

He was certain, as they reached the end of the movie, that Mary had drifted off into dreamland, but the words he heard were not in his subconscious.

"Live with me, Marshall."

He about had a stroke.

"What?"

She didn't even open her eyes.

"Live with me. Move in."

So much for slow.

"Here?"

Now her lids snapped open, probing up into his with their familiar exasperation.

"You got a better idea?" she dripped with sarcasm. "A cottage in the woods? Condo in Boca? Sewer down a manhole cover? Yes, here," she finally finished.

Marshall gaped, but there was really no need for him to consider, to think, to wait it out. She'd suggested it and it was only for her and her happiness that he was holding off. He was ready to shout it from the rooftops if she were so inclined.

"If you're sure," was his response.

"Marshall…" she couldn't shift onto her stomach the way she wanted and had to stay part-way reclined, but managed to get her point across. "Why waste anymore time? There are _some_ things we need to wait on…" she didn't specify what. "But there's no point on this. We spend every day together, sometimes eighteen hours; we know we can stand it…"

"How romantic of you," he mused.

Her fingers ran up and down his chest. She felt sequestered and sheltered in his arms, and she wanted that feeling to last. To last and to last and to last and to never leave her behind.

Mary swallowed, "I _want_ you here."

Marshall leaned in and laid a kiss on the crown of her head, wanting more than anything for her _not_ to feel uncomfortable because it was the last thing in the world he felt. He'd not garnered this much joy since his dad had gone, and nothing had ever seemed so right.

"Then here is where I belong."

**A/N: I hope you enjoyed my first little scenario! Please review! I love you guys! I'm hoping half the fun of this collection is that you'll have no idea what's in the next part LOL!**


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: Thank-you all in spades for the early reviews! Honestly, you flatter me! Something I meant to say in the first set of author's notes that I forgot (which is probably good since they were so long) is that the theme for all the one-shots tend to fall into three very broad categories – sugar-sappy-sweet, way too cheesy funny, or highly dramatic LOL! Unfortunately, it's hard to show why you would choose to showcase a certain moment if it's not one of these things, so to me some of them feel unoriginal or repetitious but hopefully nobody will notice. ;) **

XXX

_Pre-Sam, Two Months, August:_

Mary was sitting on the couch at home, tears trailing softly down her cheeks for a wide variety of reasons, and yet for no reason at all. Aside from the fact that it was August and she was so stiflingly hot she thought sure she was going to burst into flame at any moment. Forget that her ankles were so swollen she could barely walk, and the enormous grossness of her midsection combined with the fact that she hurt all over was making her very agitated indeed.

And the fact that Mark had just left the house.

He'd been fine, cordial even – hugely understanding and so why was she upset? Of course he'd been shocked to learn she was pregnant, but he'd taken her requests in stride. She was going to raise her child with Marshall; Mark would appear as wanted and needed. What more could she ask for?

Maybe it was the fact that she'd been given the green light that was frightening her. There were no obstacles in the road now. She had free range and it was scaring her to death. Only a month out from having made the decision to keep her son, she was still reeling and sometimes it really snuck up on her.

And unfortunately, she was too immersed in the sensation to quit crying when Marshall came through the door, bringing a dusty, hot gust of wind with him. It was close to seven and still roasting out.

"Hi…" he greeted her first without really paying attention, unloading his keys and sunglasses onto the end table.

When he looked up he saw and it was plain he could not have been more concerned. The weeping, seven-month-pregnant woman didn't inspire a ton of confidence.

"What's wrong?" he whispered softly.

He was next to her quicker than she could blink, and as if on cue the little boy in her belly started his steady rhythm of kicking. It was really beginning to wear her out and she wished he'd learn when to settle down.

"Did something happen?" Marshall pressed, and he raised his hand to try and put it on her shoulder but decided against it and backed down. "Do you not feel well?"

He knew better than to accuse Mary of bawling out of pain. She was tougher than that – or she was supposed to be, anyway.

"I feel disgusting," she wiped an eye with her index finger.

"Don't talk like that," Marshall scolded without thinking. "You're gorgeous."

"Don't lie to me," she shook her head. "I'm a hideous hot air balloon; I am absolutely the furthest thing from gorgeous. I don't know what world you live in where this…" she gestured up and down her frame. "Is gorgeous. You need your head examined, doofus."

She was avoiding the real issue and Marshall knew it. She would not be able to hide forever. Or even for very long, it seemed. Considering her current condition, he didn't want her staying worked up for any extended period of time, her opinion be damned.

"I really wish you would tell me what's going on," he urged. And then, not particularly caring how she felt about his hovering, "The stress is really bad for you. You need to be careful."

As anticipated, she rolled her eyes, but she also remembered their time barely thirty days before when she had-had to beg Marshall to open up, to share with her how he really felt about Seth dying. It had been torturous and deep down; she really didn't want to put him through that. He had other things to be concerned with if she continued to be a basket case.

"It's Mark," she finally sighed.

"He came in today, didn't he?" Marshall clarified, and then his brow furrowed, "Is he going to make things difficult?"

She shook her head, being honest. She wished the kid would quit punching. She felt bruised and burned on the ridges of her stomach already.

"He was fine with it," she relayed. "No problem. Says he'll be there as much or as little as we want."

Marshall was well-aware that Mark had a thorough knowledge of Mary's past concerning broken homes and shredded families. He had thought he might be understanding about this, and it was obvious he'd come through. What he didn't understand was Mary's reaction.

"Mare, that's a good thing," he said calmly, trying not to sound as though she were being dim. "It's what we wanted," he was still confused. "Isn't it?"

She shrugged, hating herself for all this emotion, for laying her insecurities all over the table. Marshall was surely going to give up on her before they even got started.

"Yes," she agreed with him in hopes that she would not seem so ridiculous. "Yes…"

She sighed, taking a deep breath, but it was getting harder these days with her stomach stretched so perilously tight. How was she going to manage all that huff-and-puff Marshall talked about when she went into labor? Add it to the list of worries.

"I think I'm just tired," embedded with another sigh. "I got really pent-up with Mark coming – just crashing off of that. You know?"

Marshall nodded, feigning the fact that he _did_ know, but he was certain it was more than that. But he needed to be very cautious not to push her. She was going to run fast and run far if he swooped in too soon. This was new to both of them and they were both making efforts outside their normal frame of mind.

"Okay," he accepted for now. "Why don't you go lie down for awhile? I can see what there is for dinner."

He'd only been in the house a month, and already the kitchen was his abode. That part had been simple. He could see Mary trying not to snap for his suggestion to rest easy, but it was plain she wanted to. However, part of her must've been telling the truth – she really _was_ tired – and she nodded in agreement.

Without another word, she hoisted herself off the couch while Marshall did everything in his power not to extend a hand to help her. She ventured on her own back to the bedroom and Marshall had thought she might leave the door open, as not to be so isolated, but he was wrong. She retreated and shut the hatch almost soundlessly.

But after ten minutes of Marshall rooting around in the cabinets for something more interesting than a package of rice, a door opened rather than closed and it was the front this time.

Jinx, in all her splendor, waving merrily and not thinking to keep her voice down.

"Hello!" she called, prancing right in.

"Shh…" Marshall put a finger to his lips as he stirred the sauce he was making on the stove.

Jinx put an embarrassed, giggly hand to her mouth at his admonition and quieted down as she made her way into the kitchen to join Marshall. In her hands was a plastic grocery sack.

"Just thought I'd drop by and see how my Mary's doing," she informed him, eyeing the sauce with some degree of curiosity. "Is she here?"

Jinx, in all the grandmotherly excitement she possessed these days, had obviously not picked up on why Marshall had been shushing her.

"She's in the bedroom," he informed her. "Seems she had a long day – running around for work all morning and she had to meet with Mark this afternoon…"

"How did that go?" Jinx turned hushed, as though they were sharing like girlfriends.

"Mary said it went fine," Marshall shrugged, turning the burner down. "But she didn't seem to want to talk about it very much."

Jinx put on her best matronly gaze, equating Mary in bed at seven in the evening with a hard day and she immediately sensed danger. Marshall wanted to keep Mary calm and normally Jinx had the exact opposite effect, but he couldn't help thinking she might do some good on this front. She pushed Mary when nobody else had the nerve, and Marshall was anxious to make sure she was okay.

Putting his spoon on the counter, he appealed to the woman in the most genuine fashion he knew how.

"You don't think you could talk to her," he offered. "Just…as a fellow woman. A mother."

Jinx was visibly surprised, but also a little touched by Marshall thinking this might actually work.

"I'm not who she needs to talk to, Marshall," she insisted quietly.

It was Marshall's turn to be touched, but he knew his place. He wasn't going until Mary was ready. He wasn't going to wreck what he'd hoped for-for eight long years by pestering her with busybody conversation.

"Listen…" he dropped his voice to get his point across. "She seems _nervous_, which is not something I'm very talented at associating with Mary, and she knows it. I think it's best if you try."

He believed in his words. They really could aide Mary's stress if she let Jinx in a little. They did have a few things in common.

"It's sweet you're so worried," Jinx decided. "I'll see what I can do."

She reached to pat his arm and Marshall smiled sincerely as he allowed Jinx to totter back to the bedroom on her heels.

Mary, trying to work on her laptop with little success, had heard her mother's irritatingly cheerful hello and although she planned to insist she stay away, she half-hoped Jinx would not accept. She was feeling very confined from staying all bottled up and she couldn't let Marshall see any more of her insecurities. She was supposed to be tough and no-nonsense. Not afraid of anything.

Jinx, who had a habit of not knocking, strode right inside to find her daughter sitting upright in bed, hardly able to reach the keys on the laptop without stretching over her enormous belly.

"Hello angel," she crooned, stepping to the side of the bed and pecking her cheek briefly.

"My favorite home invader," Mary groused. "Second only to Brandi."

"Darling," Jinx scoffed, settling herself at Mary's bare feet. "I just wanted to see how you were. The last couple months can be very difficult…"

"You were here two days ago," Mary reminded her, eyes still on the screen. "I think I only gained ten pounds since then."

"Oh, you're dramatic," Jinx teased lovingly. "You look fine."

This was almost too much for Mary, and she smacked the lid of her laptop shut, huffing loudly. So far Jinx's presence had not inspired the desired outcome.

"Do you all need glasses?" she snapped tightly. "Look at me!"

Against her will, tears sprung to her eyes once more. They stung from earlier; they obviously weren't used to being so wet and flooded. They needed time to adjust too, and they weren't getting it.

Mary felt sure Jinx would attempt to pacify and talk her down, but she was quiet, placing the plastic grocery sack on the other side of Mary's legs. Her daughter was breathing a little quickly, her cheeks going red in the presence of the tears.

"Did Marshall tell you Mark was here?" she interjected a little loudly among the silence.

"Yes," Jinx folded her hands in her lap, preparing. "But we don't need to talk about that."

It was exactly this – the fact that Jinx said she didn't _have_ to talk about it that made her want to. Mary remembered her saying something similar after Mia, the one witness she'd counted as a friend, had died. It was getting a choice that made it easier to spill.

"I brought you a treat…" Jinx taunted invitingly, not even giving Mary a chance to express what she was thinking.

She fumbled, rustling the sack she'd brought in, and came up with a box coated in ice crystals, presenting them to Mary with a flourish. She scowled, taking the box in hand and looking at the label.

"Orange Popsicles?"

The cardboard was pleasantly cool on her swollen fingers.

"I don't know how you're managing in this heat wave, honey," Jinx waved a dismissive hand. "I was only a couple months along with you during that summer of seventy-seven and practically lived on those things," she gave a reminiscent chuckle.

Mary softened a little at Jinx attempting to understand her pain, but perhaps her mother thought the smirk was mocking and she shrugged.

"Anyway I…" Jinx hedged. "I thought they might help."

All Mary was thinking was that it was a beautiful segue. If she wanted to unload, now was her opportunity. Jinx might turn sugary and sappy and give her little to fill her brain with, but hopefully it couldn't hurt to ask. Hopefully she would not take this to mean Mary was diminishing under the guise of impending motherhood.

"Mom…when you were…" she swallowed and decided to break into the box for something to do with her hands. "When you were pregnant with me…"

She ripped the top out and immediately delved inside for the packaged goodies.

"Were you…" she tried to turn casual, unwrapping the frozen goodness and sucking in the orange flavor, so cold it made her teeth hurt. "Were you…scared? At all."

Mary wasn't fooled into thinking Jinx was not surprised, but she did attempt to cover. Her huge green eyes were doleful and innocent; although they were the same color as Mary's, they were more reminiscent of Brandi's in their ability to convey need.

"Yes honey, I was," she nodded, stroking one of Mary's legs atop the covers.

Mary herself was a bit bewildered and cocked her head, "…Why?" she whispered. "What were you scared _of_?"

Jinx considered, but it was apparent she was not considering at all. She knew her answer, but didn't want to say it.

"Mostly…I was afraid I couldn't depend on your father," she finally revealed. "Oh, I convinced myself otherwise but there was no denying I was terrified he would fly the coop any day for a quick buck."

So Jinx had known even then. Apparently however, she needed to make known that she and her daughter were not the same in this way.

"You don't have that problem, sweetie," she assured her, squeezing her stretched knee now. "Marshall would never run out on you."

Mary nodded thoughtfully, chewing the ice from the Popsicle. She'd nearly swallowed the whole thing in one gulp and was going to need another soon if she wanted to keep being relaxed.

"I know that," was her response, trying to seem somehow intelligent about the situation.

The rational part of her _did_ know. Even if Marshall did someday bow out, he would not leave her holding the bag in the same fashion James had. If not for her, than for the baby. He was too self-conscious, too considerate to do something like that to a child.

"You're worried about something else?" Jinx was asking, remembering Marshall's suggestion that she open Mary up.

Her daughter shrugged, using her full mouth as an excuse not to speak right away. She couldn't let anyone – even Jinx – know that she envisioned herself an increasingly crappy parent. Despite her own mother's revitalization as the years had gone by, Mary had not had the greatest example. She simply didn't know _how_. And _that_ scared her.

"No," she eventually lied, stuffing her empty wrapper and stick back in the box with the good Popsicles. "I was just asking."

Even Jinx, who was not known for her intuition, didn't buy it.

"You should go give these to Marshall," she thrust the package at Jinx. "They'll melt otherwise."

Jinx slowly reached out and took the offering and when Mary let go of the carton, her free hand floated to the left side of her belly and she winced without thinking. She caressed lightly, hoping the pain would taper. It was something between a kick and those stupid Braxton Hicks. Not bad enough to make her whine, but bad enough to really, truly annoy her and wear her out if they kept up long enough. Her complete lack-of-stamina lately was one of the many things bothering her, and one of the many things she didn't like to discuss.

Fortunately, Jinx chose not to dote and instead played dumb. She could be skilled at it on occasion.

"Well aside from your father…" she began, attempting to smile. "I didn't know what the hell you did with a baby. I put your diapers on backwards for the first month," she laughed lightly.

Mary almost did too, wondering if this was true or if Jinx was making it up.

"I didn't even know how to test if the formula was too hot at first," she prattled on endlessly. "I'd just drink it myself to see."

"You just put some on the inside of your arm," Mary interjected without thinking, chewing her nail as she listened.

Jinx fed her a kind smile and reached up to twirl a strand of Mary's hair.

"Somebody's been studying."

"It's Marshall who's been studying," Mary corrected. "His monotone buzz does penetrate sometimes."

She wasn't sure if Jinx's words were meant to comfort or not. Sure, Mary had concerned herself with the ordinary, everyday aspects of parenthood. It was the facets you couldn't teach that kept her up at night and all of a sudden, those fears were spilling from her lips like she'd lost her grip. She didn't know what had happened, but it just came.

"But mom…anybody can learn to dress the kid and change him and when to put him down for a nap…"

The kicking was so drumming Mary felt sure she could see the ridge of footprints on her belly. She felt sick from her swelling ankles and her aching back and she doubted she would ever feel the same again.

She was resenting all this and she shouldn't. A real mother wouldn't. They just wouldn't.

With this realization, the structure of her phrase took a completely unexpected turn and it happened again – the words just came and with them came a single tear.

"Mom, I feel awful," her cheeks were hot as she looked at Jinx's sympathetic face. "I hurt all over. And I _want_ to work – I want to go to work and feel useful and do something worth doing but it's killing me and its killing Marshall," she revealed, face on fire now. "He doesn't want me there; he's afraid I'm going to get hurt and I don't want him to worry about me but I don't know how to stop…"

She also didn't know how to quit speaking. Everything was coming apart; she could barely stay together at the seams. The solitary tear that had made its way into the room was the only one, but it had broken the barrier and Mary just couldn't shut up.

"What if I don't know how to stop once the baby actually gets here?" she asked frantically. "What if I just toss him aside because my job is more important? I wasn't supposed to keep him and now I don't know what I've done…"

Jinx had done really well on keeping her mouth shut, but Mary getting worked up obviously hadn't been in the cards and she raised a hand to quiet her. It didn't work in the least.

"Mark could take him from me down the road…" she was really going out on a limb now.

"Angel, he wouldn't do that…"

"Marshall could just give up on me…" she fretted.

"Mary, honey," Jinx tried to be understanding, even lucid, as the accusations got more and more out of control. "You know how responsible Marshall is; he's not going to leave you in the lurch…"

"I don't _know_ anything anymore!" Mary hadn't meant to shout, but Jinx's ridiculous assumption that she was at all level-headed had irked her severely. "I don't even know if I'll love him!"

And there it was. The root of it all. It hadn't come out the way she'd wanted it to at all, but there was no taking it back. She shuddered, practically feeling her chest swell with the tightness just like every other area of her body.

Now that it was out there, she might as well admit it.

Her voice was so soft she was surprised Jinx could hear.

"What if I don't love him? The baby – what if I don't love him?"

The room was strangely silent in the absence of Mary's hysteria, but it hung in the air above the two of them like threatening, black storm clouds. Saying it aloud was almost as horrifying as keeping it in. Mary did not ordinarily care what Jinx thought of her, but she suddenly found herself feeling like a little girl who craved approval. What must be going through her mother's mind at hearing such a thing?

Jinx swallowed, talking herself down from being overbearing, and stayed stationed at Mary's feet so she wouldn't be too close.

"Sweetheart…"

She usually tried to avoid the use of that word, as it belonged to the salutation of the fated letter James had written his older daughter the day he'd left them behind. The day he'd caused all these shattered insecurities that lived deep inside of Mary.

"I don't know how you'll feel," Jinx forced herself to admit, not wanting to presume anything now that Mary had unleashed everything. "But don't you think deciding to keep the baby means you feel…_something_?"

Mary wanted to say she'd only done that because it was so important to Marshall, but she was near tears and knew if she spoke it was likely she would start sobbing and so she concentrated on getting back together.

"And I think you're forgetting you've already done this once," Jinx declared boldly.

"What?" Mary didn't have a clue what she was talking about. "When? What do you mean?"

Jinx shrugged, cheeks turning a little bit pink with shame, and averted her eyes to the bedspread.

"You were certainly more Brandi's mother than I was when you were growing up."

Mary felt an ache in her heart she hadn't expected. She hadn't needed Jinx to defame herself just to build Mary up. She wasn't that sort of person; she normally hated self-pity and wild, frightening possibilities that had no place in reality.

"Mom…" she shook her head, all the old sensations that had been tender returning as the emotion whooshed out; her throbbing back, her cramping stomach. "That's not what I…"

"It's the truth, darling," Jinx insisted, meeting her eyes. "And I know you love Brandi – even when you pretend not to," she fed her a knowing look before Mary could object.

Oddly, Jinx's weird brand of reassurance was helping. If Mary could in any way find _Brandi_ loveable when she'd been left clutching at the edge of the cliff, there was hope for the rug rat.

"In the meantime…" Jinx pressed on, and she reached up to pat her hair another time. "_Let_ Marshall take care of you, honey. He _wants_ to."

Jinx needn't have made this sound so obvious because Mary already knew it to be true. It was just hard, knowing Marshall had nothing to worry about when it came to fatherhood, and to show him a side of herself she wasn't sure he knew existed. Even the new part of the relationship was scary; she was taking baby steps that felt like enormous strides.

"I'll see what I can do," was her grumbling reply. "I'm tired, mom," she repeated as a means of saying she was through with the brief bout of panic. "I think Marshall probably has dinner ready," even though she was not particularly hungry.

"Of course," her mother, blissfully, opted for understanding. "Don't go off the grid on me sweetie…"

She stood and moved to the top of the bed, kissing the crown of Mary's hair like she was seven years old.

"Know that I love you."

"Thanks mom," was the daughter's usual answer to this statement and Jinx smiled softly before heading for the door.

Once she was gone, Popsicles in tow, Mary sighed, breathing deeply with her hands splayed over her belly and wishing with every passing second that her body would be bestowed with some relief. But among the nightmares haunting her mind, her back stayed sore and her feet stayed fat and her lower abdomen continued to contract, however lightly, in protest.

Today really had been rougher than normal. She supposed it could actually be stress; the tense way with which she'd prepared herself for Mark's arrival and every inch of her skin hollering in apt disapproval.

She shut her eyes, trying to think about what Jinx had said, putting a hand on her forehead and shoving her sweaty bangs out of the way. It was way too hot and her head was beginning to pound in fatigue.

Unfortunately – or fortunately – Jinx had left the door open a crack with her exit and she heard it creak when Marshall stuck his head in. She guessed her mother had left.

"Hi," he said casually, neck-less with his head perched through the frame.

"Hi…" she sounded almost surprised, moving her hand further up on her forehead to see him better.

Marshall ventured inside and over to the head of the bed where Mary was lying down. He'd been about to ask if she was ready to eat, but seeing her fingers laid across her sweaty brow, the glassy nature of her eyes, considering the kind of day she'd put herself through, he changed his mind. He went for realism.

"You really don't feel good."

He did not pose it like a question, hoping in his own way to ward off arguments.

And it worked.

"I don't," she sighed, shaking her head and going easy on his concern, thinking of Jinx's plea.

"You want to skip dinner?" he offered.

She didn't hesitate with the leeway.

Nodding, "Yeah."

"No problem," he was agreeable. "What can I do to help?"

He really hoped she'd let him. Hearing her from the other side of the door talking in muffled, urgent tones to Jinx had been torturous. He wanted to be there for her so badly, but she just wasn't used to allowing people in. She'd been scarred by her father's absence for a long time now.

Looking up into Marshall's soft blue eyes from her reclining position, Mary conceded defeat. She couldn't leave him in the dark tonight.

"Could you…just sit with me awhile?"

She made it sound like she really needed him, and on some level – okay, on _every_ level – she definitely did.

"Of course I can," Marshall tried not to sound too eager, but inside he was bursting.

Who knew the exhausted pregnant woman could be so damned exciting?

Marshall walked around to the other side of the bed and settled himself beside her extended figure. But when he sat down and stretched out his legs, she surprised him by managing to inch herself down part way and her head found his lap. Instinctively, Marshall began to run his fingers through the knots in her hair. It was damp from suffering through the heat.

Mary's eyes fluttered shut, but she didn't attempt to sleep.

"Jesus God…I wish I hadn't turned into such a useless lump," she claimed bluntly.

"Nah," Marshall was quick with a chuckle. "You're adjusting. You can bet by the time you do, you'll be ready to pop."

Mary was very conflicted about that. She was leaps and bounds ahead of not wanting to be pregnant anymore, but no longer being with child meant she was going to be…_with_ child. And she was _not_ ready for that.

But she opted for praise, not voicing her thoughts.

"That feels really good Marshall…"

He couldn't take away her pains, but he could alleviate them with the gentle, tangling stroking he did in the honey-golden strands of her hair. It was giving her something else to focus on, dulling the tight, balled up feeling in her belly.

"I'm glad," he said sweetly. "I'm sorry you feel so awful."

He was using her words – the ones she'd used with Jinx. It endeared her, and made her heart lift. She didn't know what to say and kept quiet with her eyes shut, just letting him do what he thought was right. He always seemed to know.

"You know I was thinking…" Marshall pressed on when he saw she wasn't going to answer. "About that discussion we had the other day on names…"

"Yeah?"

"Well, you didn't tell me what you like so far."

To the naked eye, this might seem a dangerous subject but Marshall knew it was safe. Although pinning down a name made things a lot more real, the ambiguity of it seemed to bother her more.

"I told you I'm not choosing until he comes," she reminded him, eyes still closed, nails still gentle against her scalp.

"I know," Marshall said. "I just wanted to feel you out…"

"That's not all you want to do," Mary muttered under her breath, and Marshall was glad her eyes were shut so she wouldn't see him go red.

"You've only told me what you _don't_ like," he covered up.

"Yeah…" she sighed. "Nothing old school – like Fred or Barney or Chester. Nothing trendy – like Chance or Jonas or Brock. We'll save those for Brandi when her time comes."

"That only slightly narrows the field," Marshall continued, careful not to stop caressing her hair because he'd seen her intake her breath sharply, like she'd got hit by a sudden slash to the abdomen.

He wanted to ask if she was all right, but stayed steady in his conversation.

"Seems you're looking for a classic, tried-and-true moniker that will withstand the test of time," he mused, scratching a little bit harder to get her mind off whatever she'd just felt.

Fortunately, it seemed temporary and Mary continued talking. She liked the way she could feel Marshall's stomach rise and fall with her head in his lap. There was security in that, somehow.

"But I don't know what that is," she responded to his statement. "And I told you I _won't_ choose until he lands. I need to see him first."

"I just thought I'd add one to the list of possibilities," Marshall offered. "Food for thought and all."

Mary sighed, feigning annoyance.

"Okay doofus; let's hear it."

Marshall was pleased to see some of the old Mary sneak through, even if he felt certain that no matter what name he suggested she would indeed put off the title until the last minute. And claim her choice had come out of nowhere to boot.

"Well, I was talking to your mom and she told me what they were going to name you if you'd been a boy…" he began.

Mary was surprised the idea had originated from this place – that Marshall had liked it and filed it away. She refused to commit, but she had to admit she was curious. Jinx had never shared such a thing with her.

Her eyes finally slid back open, and she gazed up into Marshall's sensitive features, blearily from her tiredness but sharp all at the same time.

"What was it?"

He smiled softly at her probing glance. He knew she was thinking of James – a silent tribute to his elongated absence that she would never have to explain.

"Sam."

**A/N: I'm sure it seems like the end came completely out of nowhere, but there is some reasoning behind it. I feel like both Mary and Brandi were at points in their life when they had the boys where they were very wrapped up in the 'daddy issues.' Mary is just that way by nature whether she wants to be or not, and Brandi had Jesse right after James died. I feel like both of them would've named the boys in a silent tribute to James, one they don't have to explain and can write off or don't have to admit to (since he was a fugitive and all.) Sam, because of what Marshall told Mary, and Jesse because of the whole Jesse-James-outlaw thing. But Mary would leave the name choice to the bitter end and claim it was chosen for 'no reason at all.' Anyway, probably too descriptive but that's what I do!**

**Hugs and love for the reviews!**


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews! I always worry that having Mary be emotional will look tremendously out-of-character, but I know that in past episodes on the show, she's gone to Jinx when she needs to be that way (Marshall being shot, breaking up with Raph, Mia dying, etc.) **

**To carajiggirl who said the last may have been her favorite chapter already – this is one of mine! :)**

XXX

_Pre-Sam, One Month, September:_

"Come on…my arm's tired…" Mary griped as she lowered the paint roller and mopped across her sweaty brow.

Marshall turned to her with a disbelieving grin, shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The old pair of jeans he wore had a few splatters, and the stubble on his chin was more heightened due to the late afternoon sun coming through the curtain-less window. Mary had on a pair of airy sweatpants and an old service shirt of Marshall's, the five-point star emblazoned in the corner. It was one of the few comfortable things she fit into that she didn't care about ruining.

"I know that's not Mary Shannon using pregnancy as an excuse to get out of a little manual labor," Marshall teased, extending his own arm to give the back wall a little more shine.

"Yeah, right," Mary scoffed, brushing her wispy hair behind her ears and leaning on her roller, paint-end on the tarp that covered the carpet. "Just give it five more minutes. Take the 'manual' off and what have you got?" she asked. "You want a practice run to the hospital three weeks early?"

"Hey-hey!" Marshall gave a gleeful shout as he continued painting, the palest shade of blue shimmering in its wetness against the natural light. "Three weeks! You remembered how long you've got without having to ask me twenty times."

"Hold the ticker tape, doofus," she groused, swinging the roller back up and moving to work on the right wall. "I was just at the office yesterday; give me twenty-four hours before the information gets lost."

Marshall chuckled as he turned over his shoulder, watching her resume her second coat with the tiniest of sighs to go along. He wasn't fooled; he knew she wanted to work, that she wanted pull her own weight and be involved as much as possible. But he'd only been teasing and adopted the understanding for which he was known.

"If you want to take a break for awhile…"

"I'm good," she didn't even let him finish. "I only said that to give _you_ an out. Looking a little worse for wear, lanky," she was glancing over her shoulder now too.

"If you say so," Marshall played along and went back to his job.

He and Mary had spent the morning painting all the trim in what had been, up until about a month before, the guest room. Although Mary had insisted it wasn't necessary since they were just striping cream-over-cream, Marshall had decided it needed a touch-up and got to hone his fine motor skills doing it.

The afternoon had consisted of painting the walls in a shade of blue so faint it was extremely easy to mistake it for white. Mary had been leery of doing anything too gender-specific, especially considering she hadn't wanted to redesign the room in the first place.

As if on cue, Mary voiced just what Marshall had been thinking.

"I'm not sure about this color…" she stuck a hand on her hip, Marshall looking at her from behind. "We should've just gone with white. What if they read the sonogram wrong? What if the dude is actually a dudette? What then?"

"We've been over this…" Marshall sighed, stepping all the way around and she did the same; their feet crackled against the plastic covering the rug even though they were both barefoot.

"Over what?" Mary rebutted.

"They didn't read the sonogram wrong," he insisted. "It is highly-highly unlikely. I saw him – and you've seen him several times," he reminded her. "Unless he has three legs, I'm pretty sure we're good."

"That could've been an arm," Mary was being stubborn.

"_Between_ his legs?" Marshall was incredulous.

"I don't trust those nurses!" his partner wagged a finger on the hand that was not holding the paint roller. "They spend thirty minutes waggling that stupid wand all over this grotesque…" her eyes flicked to her belly as she tried to find the word, but she was at full steam now and didn't intend to stop. "…Ness; if they can't even _find_ the kid for a half hour how can they tell me what it is?"

"Mare," Marshall exhaled a second time, turning a little more serious and taking his chance to rub his temples, which were sweaty. "The nurses are not legally allowed to tell you what sex the baby is. It's always been Doctor Reese," he knew he needed to be patient, but it was hard when Mary paid absolutely no attention.

His girl – _his girl_; it made him giddy – balked at the reasoning and shuffled her bare feet, trying to come up with a good argument fast.

"She could be wrong too."

Off her usual mark. Well, it was late and she was tired.

"Are you telling me that if you thought it was a girl you'd have gone with pink?" he joked, knowing this could not possibly be true. "Magenta? Fuschia? Maybe _mauve_?"

He was way too pleased with himself and since Mary couldn't stop herself from smirking, she took a more unique approach.

"Shut it doofus…" she used his less-than-flattering nickname for a second time and, without even thinking, stuck out her handy paint roller and jabbed him straight in the gut like it was a sword.

"Augh…" he buckled, caught off guard, and stumbled with a hoarse-sounding laugh against the window. "Ouch…!" he was still giggling, clutching his abdomen.

"Wuss," Mary accused, still at attention.

"I've been speared!" he cried dramatically. "Somebody's asking for it…"

His mischievous grin made the flush go high in her cheeks, spreading all over her neck. She'd never had the slightest shame about anything until she and Marshall had gotten together. Now he did things to her she couldn't even control; it was like her body and mind were completely separate entities. She'd never had that feeling with Mark or even Raph, despite the best thing she did with both of them was jump in bed.

"Look what you did to my shirt," Marshall pouted, too concerned with how to retaliate to notice Mary's reddened cheeks. "Shameless, you are…"

Not exactly, Mary thought, as she watched Marshall pluck the shirt at arm's length, examining the blue stripe with which Mary had adorned it.

"X marks the spot…" she mused to avoid him realizing how flustered she'd become; she stretched and striped him a second time, creating the letter all crooked across his belly.

"Well, if _that's_ the game we're playing…" Marshall teased and she saw his eyes stray to her tummy just a second too late.

"Don't even think about it…" she warned, but Marshall had already snatched the paint can nearby, a single brush at the ready and was coming at her.

"No…!" she shouted, shielding her midsection and backing away from him. "No…!" a reluctant, annoyed laugh escaped. "Marshall, I can't run away…!"

"That's the point!"

She tried anyway; only he was too quick for her, clamping his fingers around her forearm and decorating her with a long, perfect stripe from the neck of her shirt to her waist, and she squealed girlishly trying to wiggle away.

"Stop!" she hollered, but even when he wasn't speaking he was radiating delight and happiness; she could taste it coming off him. "You are such a dweeb!" she ducked as he tried to get at her again.

"Look who started it!" he accused.

"You want your wagon fixed?" Mary twisted away and flung out her roller a second time. "Then have at it, partner!"

It was a mess after that, a whirlwind of flying paint; shrieks and cursing as Mary and Marshall dove among one another, both trying to outdo the other. Marshall's single brush sprayed a rainstorm of blue dots all over Mary's shirt and drawstring pants, even when he wasn't able to get at her. Mary lined his front and back with her roller, but evidently went too far when she tried to highlight his much-prized near-perfect hair.

"Oh, she's fighting dirty!" he hollered, hands over his head as he swooped under her arm and out of her wrath.

"When do I fight any other way?" she wanted to know, but the words didn't come as easily as they had five minutes before; she was getting winded and there was more time between them. "Take it like a man, Mann!"

"Clever…" he rolled his eyes in extreme sarcasm.

"The final KO…" Mary told him. "You're gonna be pinned and gagged, no time flat…"

"An ample finishing signature move," Marshall praised briefly from his post on the right side of the window. "Good thing I've got my own up a sleeve…"

"Yeah?" Mary sneered. "Enlighten me," she was sure he was bluffing and snuck in a deep breath that she hoped he wouldn't notice; she loved the familiar feeling of doing whatever she wanted, no holds barred and she didn't want it to end.

"Going in for the kill…" he snuck over, playing her with his eyes.

She was so busy zeroing in on the lightness of their blue, the way they were glimmering in all the action, that she let herself get caught off guard. Marshall yanked up the hem of her shirt and was clearly about to ring her belly before she squealed just in time.

"Too far!" she shoved his hands away and grabbed him around the neck, pulling him into a headlock against her waist, where he sputtered appropriately. "Too far! You're not getting your paws on this!"

Even though she was practically choking him, holding him so tightly was intoxicating, especially when she shifted him marginally more affectionately to the inside of her shoulder. She couldn't get close enough, couldn't grip harder if she tried and yet she wanted to push the limits further than they'd been pushed before. She could feel his heart beating with hers and she wanted every single piece of him at every single second in this moment.

"Yikes…" Marshall hacked when she didn't let him go. "Cool your jets; you wanna turn me blue?"

"You already look like a smurf," she informed him, fire pulsing through all her veins. "Or the smurfette."

"All right…" Marshall tried to shake his head beneath her. "Uncle-uncle…"

Pleased he'd given in, Mary was forced to slacken her fingers but even when she did, he straightened and gave her one last battle scar – an azure streak right down her cheek. She thought about retaliating another time, but her heart was thudding so fast she could barely breathe – whether from Marshall or the energy expended, she wasn't sure.

But she laughed softly at his gesture, staring up into his face above her own. His hair was rumpled and his eyes were a little fatigued, but he was dazzling. Slowly, she hung her arms on his neck, unable to take her gaze off his own. He was barely out of breath, but she thought she might pop a lung and with every second that passed she fought harder and harder not to act. They'd talked about this; they'd agreed to wait but none of those alarms were going off. Her resolve was going to drain right out.

In what felt like less than a beat, she was suddenly all over him – kiss after kiss, pulling him into her with just her lips. She was drinking him in; he was flooding her every pore as her hands crawled all over his back. His skin was palpable with sweetness and the touch of those long fingers tangling through her hair was kicking her heart-rate to a dangerous level. If she let go of him, she'd die.

Until those same fingers found the hem of her shirt from behind. She knew it was going to come off and the air on her back, the revelation of her belly jarred her very harshly back to consciousness. It was dizzying, like smacking your head on the windowsill or the open cabinet above.

Stop. Stop. Stop-stop-stop-stop!

"Don't…" she finally managed hoarsely, wrenching away so fast she almost bit him. "No…"

She shook her head as she stumbled backward, and the breathless feeling returned to being in her muscles and her back instead of her veins.

It wasn't that she didn't want him. She did. But he wasn't Raph and he wasn't Mark and she wasn't going to ruin it by, to reflect on her own words, 'dropping jeans' so quickly. She'd just hurt him. And she'd done enough of that.

She thought he'd be disappointed, even confused but when she looked at his face he was visibly upset. Not with her.

"I'm so sorry…" he said in a low voice, not nearly as embarrassed as she was and staring straight at her. "I pushed you…" he shook his head, internally berating himself. "You said you wanted to wait…" he became more agitated the longer he spoke, and that wasn't something Mary wanted. "Damn it…" he raked his fingers through his hair.

"Marshall, I jumped _your_ bones," she claimed bluntly. "I guess being all hormones in a hand-basket makes you hard to resist…"

"I should've stopped it," he insisted, and his eyes had turned steely, almost grey in their seriousness. "You told me you weren't ready…"

"I'm not," Mary whispered timidly, forcing herself to keep eye-contact. "I wish that I were…"

"Mary, there is no need for you to explain yourself," she'd never seen Marshall like this and it was throwing her.

"Nothing happened…" she reminded him softly.

This was true. Nothing had happened – nothing at all. A few harmless, heat-of-the-moment kisses. And some groping. Minimal, adolescent groping. Nothing they couldn't handle, even reflect on fondly later.

Marshall seemed to be thinking along the same lines because Mary could see him mellowing out, calming down from being so hard on himself. He blinked once or twice and nodded, but for what Mary wasn't sure.

"Right…" he finally said. "Right."

She knew he feared ruining it as much as she did.

"Right…" she repeated with a sigh.

She felt grateful they'd managed to side-step too much awkwardness, and the feeling that her limbs had taken a beating washed back over her; not one of attraction and desire, but of exhaustion. Her lungs felt like they'd closed in from having to draw so many breaths of air, her muscles were trembling, and right at that moment her son gave her a series of very sharp kicks. The protest.

Mary let out a deep breath, now not caring that Marshall could see, and spread her hands over her lower belly, willing the little one to forgive her for her momentary lapse in judgment.

"Oh boy…" she sighed with the exhale, closing her eyes.

She waited until the thudding tapered until she reopened them and saw that she'd given Marshall something else to feel guilty about.

"You overdid it…" he decided. "That's my fault," he extended an arm, but Mary shook her head.

"It's not," she insisted. "I'm the one who started that sophomoric crap, not you. I'm fine."

Marshall looked unconvinced and didn't say anything more about it, although the silence was unnerving Mary. She felt trapped after what had just happened and wanted to avoid running away. She fanned her shirt open to alleviate some of the sensation.

"It's hot in here…"

"Here…" Marshall offered, picking up the segue. "I'll open the window…"

He stepped over and undid the latches, hoisting the frame up and revealing the screen underneath. Mary joined him, even though there really wasn't a lot of room to look out, but the breeze was comforting on her sweaty skin. Although September was usually still fairly warm in Albuquerque, with the sun going down the draft was moderately pleasant. It was scented of smoke, like someone was burning leaves, and a hint of crispness that meant fall was on its way.

Mary sighed and reached for the hair band that always occupied her wrist, whipping her heavy waves into a sloppy ponytail at the nape of her neck. Once she was through, the back of her no longer so hot, she rested her elbows on the ledge and actually prompted conversation.

"Painting a nursery…" she worked in just a little bit of disdain. "We're such grown-ups," an attempt to sound dubious.

"Well, maybe I am," Marshall tried to joke. "Don't know about you."

The banter fell flat, even though Mary worked in a light smile, but she didn't aim it at Marshall. It was easier not to look at him after what had just gone on. She wondered, vaguely, if Marshall was as embarrassed as she was. Her reaction had come out of nowhere, and after she'd had the mortifying conversation with him about how she didn't propose to hop in the sack with him too soon, she'd intended to stand by it. She'd broken her word already.

A gustier wind swept in from outdoors, making the few leaves on the ground lift up and flutter carelessly. It blew Mary's shirt open part-way and Marshall, standing so close like this reached very cautiously to her waist and smoothed the hems straight, as though to reinforce that he hadn't been looking.

"Marshall, I'm not a prude," Mary couldn't stop herself, but she also couldn't face him. "I mean…Jesus, look at me," she scoffed. "How could I be?"

The rotund appearance spoke for itself and yet for probably only the second time in his life, Marshall didn't know what to say. These were uncharted waters. With both so afraid of wrecking everything, it was very easy to assume one word would blow it all to hell.

"It's perfectly fine if you want to take it slow."

She might've known he'd go the genial route, but how patient could he be? For how long would he wait? Did she have enough substance to sustain him? She didn't like having these thoughts.

"Marshall, I just think that…" she whipped over to face him, and he looked a little anxious but resolute. "I mean…" that phrase again. "Even if I didn't…"

She swallowed hard, having had enough of her run-amok emotions. She wanted to be perfectly adult about this.

"Even if I _weren't_…" she needed a code, unable to risk using the actual word. "The human beach ball."

Not entirely poetic – if at all – but fortunately, Marshall smiled appreciatively at the reference to show he understood.

"I get it," he said fairly. "Really Mare; I do. You don't need to justify it to me. I'm happy waiting."

Now, that was stupid. Mary's need to have him with every throb of her seams suddenly flipped right over.

"You are not _happy_," she snapped. "How stupid do you think I am?" she wrinkled her nose. "You're a man. You're in love – with God knows what," she added as an afterthought. "No part of you is _happy_ you're not getting any."

"Happy was the wrong word to use," Marshall conceded defeat. "I apologize."

He hadn't meant to make her feel worse with a bunch of mollycoddling.

"But I'm…" he shrugged unconcernedly. "_Comfortable_," he chose instead. "I care about you and about the baby, not your rapid-fire hormones. It'll happen when it happens."

Mary didn't want to admit she was worried it would _never_ happen. That she was so completely out-of-whack she was likely to have a hunger for some poor random bastard off the street; that Marshall was simply who was available.

She loved Marshall. She _knew_ she loved Marshall. That was enough, right?

As if to reinforce his point, he leaned and laid a gentle, absolutely chaste kiss on her cheek – the one without the streak of paint – and cupped the half-circle in his hand.

"Just let me know," he whispered. "When you're ready."

His words had a finality to them, and he seemed sincere, so Mary opted to accept what he was saying without trying to dwell any further. She was tired; their little romp had really taken it out of her. She blew out dramatically as she turned from the window to face the door.

"I need to check my phone…" she made up on the spot. "Make sure there's nothing from Stan…"

"What do you want for dinner?" Marshall allowed her to shy away for now, following her out of the room. "Take-out?"

Mary considered, lumbering her way to the couch and picking up her cell off the coffee table while Marshall went to the kitchen. He opened a drawer and started thumbing through menus Mary had accumulated over the years.

"Pizza?" he inquired while she sifted through texts. "Chinese?"

"Not Chinese," she shot down at once, lowering herself slowly onto the couch, eyes still on the screen.

"No?" Marshall was skeptical, peering over the menu. "You love those chicken egg-rolls…"

"No," she repeated him much more firmly. "I barfed my guts up last time you ordered it, remember?"

Marshall did recall; it had been a long night with Mary heaving over the toilet, which was getting harder with her belly in the way and how hard it was to get off the floor. Maybe their little one would not be prone to Fortune Wok.

"Anything from Stan?" Marshall asked before he suggested anything else.

"Yeah, but nothing important…" she reported, easing onto her back, head in the throw pillow so she was lying down and holding the Blackberry above her. "You get anything?"

"Hmm mmm…" Marshall said indistinctly.

"Liar," Mary saw right through it, attempting to stay tough because she was reclining and she didn't want him to think she wasn't up to a fight. "He's hoarding the good stuff."

"Mandated maternity leave doesn't mean anything to you, does it?" Marshall mused from his post in the kitchen.

"I'm not _on_ maternity leave yet!" she insisted. "Not for another two weeks! And I'm not going even then!"

Still, Stan had-had to chain her to her desk now that she was in her ninth month and she still snuck out if she thought she could get away with it.

"Did you decide on dinner?" Marshall wanted to know to avoid discussing this.

Mary, although lying on her back made it sore, liked having her feet up and danced around the issue for a moment before answering.

"I guess pizza works," mostly she didn't really care as long as it wasn't going to make her sick.

"All right," Marshall agreed. "I'll get the order in, and then I'll go clean up in there…" he jerked his head at the soon-to-be-nursery.

Mary elbowed up just slightly, which wasn't easy and she almost slipped, palming her phone with her free hand.

"But we're not done."

"We can finish another day," he shrugged. "It's not going anywhere."

Yes, but someone might be coming _into_ it sooner rather than later and they hadn't even put the crib together yet. They had no curtains, nothing to put on the walls – the walls weren't even dry – no toys or stuffed animals and very few blankets or even clothes.

Marshall could obviously sense what was going on in his partner's head and hurried to talk her down.

"Don't pop a vessel," he advised. "We'll get it all finished in time."

"I know that," she insisted confidently, and fell back into the pillows, not wanting to waste the energy arguing.

Once Marshall finished phoning for the pizza, he left Mary fiddling with the buttons on her cell and trooped back to the nursery, which was fast-filling with the mildness of the setting sun. Even though the paint could still use another coat and some personality in decoration, he marveled in how it was coming together. It was making the whole thing seem so much more like a reality, something Marshall savored and something he knew made Mary's blood pressure spike.

Efficiently, he put the lids back on the cans of paint and set the brushes aside on the tarp to dry before he washed them out. He leaned the rollers on the paper towels they'd brought and rotated the plastic off the rug part-way, just for something else to do. Evidently there wasn't all that much 'cleaning up' to do until he felt like rinsing their tools.

Since it hadn't taken him long to tidy, he ventured into their bedroom and eyed the ramshackle crib still in pieces. He wondered if Mary would object to him trying to put it together.

"Mary…?" he called, not exactly at the top-of-his-voice due to thinking she'd say no. "You mind if I give this crib a shot?"

No answer. But sometimes Mary did that if she disagreed, but could find no good reason to do so. Marshall took it as a yes.

"Let's see here…" he mused to himself as he knelt to peer at the directions. "Doesn't look too hard…"

He amused himself for awhile trying to do it without instructions, placing the pieces that _looked_ like they went together side-by-side, but when this didn't work he abandoned his instincts and went for black-and-white.

"Screw this in here…" he continued to murmur as he worked. "Snap here…" after another moment. "No boy of mine's going to be falling out of this; no sir…"

Marshall fully appreciated his intelligence with every passing second as he managed to get the contraption accumulated in no time flat. He wondered why they'd let it sit demolished in their bedroom for three long nights, walking around it because they'd been too lazy to attempt assemblage.

"No sweat…" he decided, hands on his hips in satisfaction.

He couldn't wait to tell Mary one of her readiness worries had just been alleviated. A distinct spring in his step, he made for the hall and jaunted down it, prepared to shout from the rooftops.

"Mare, guess what…?"

But as he bounced fully into the living room, he allowed his words to trail away and a soft, sweet smile to play around his lips, the full sight coming into view.

Mary, just where he'd left her with her phone, was fast asleep on the couch; the cell gone slack in her fingers at her side. Her free hand was on the right side of her belly and he could see her breathing in and out, the sedate up-down of her chest.

Ever-so-cautiously, Marshall ventured over and got a better look. She was even more beautiful up close; the smoothness of her skin, the fineness of her strands of hair pulled back into the ponytail, her long eyelashes on her cheeks. Sitting on the coffee table, he slipped the phone out of her fingers and placed it next to him.

Unable to help himself, he leaned forward and kissed her forehead, brushing the stray waves that hadn't made it into the ponytail across her brow.

And evidently, his touch was so subtle – so far from obtrusive – it actually woke her. And not gracefully; she started, likely not having been down very long, her green eyes wide on his.

"Shh…" he whispered, smoothing her hair another time. "Sorry," softer still. "Go back to sleep. I'll wake you for dinner."

"Mmm…" she groaned inarticulately. "Where were you?" her voice was thick from sleep; she still had the blue smudge on her cheek.

"What do you mean where was I?" he kept his voice low in hopes that she would listen and doze off. "I was just in the bedroom."

There was uncertainty in her features, but also a hopeful sense of security, like she could trust him for something she'd let herself lose.

"I thought you were…"

Even in the short space of time she'd managed to reenergize, she'd obviously seen something unsettling.

"I don't know…"

Mary closed her eyes, forgetting it, taking his suggestion to heart. Marshall continued to finger through her hair, thinking it would relax her. Remembering everything that had happened earlier and knowing she needed reassurance whether she asked for it or not, he knew he could give her that too.

"I'm here," he whispered. "Ready or not."

**A/N: Silly and serious and sweet; hopefully not a bad combination. These early chapters are really close together time-wise; they do span out when Sam is older, but they're all bunched up in his early years LOL! Hope you liked this one!**


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Sorry, this one's not very long! And I don't think it's very original LOL! But, hopefully you'll still like it and I forgot to say that I don't own IPS!**

XXX

_Pre-Sam, Three Days, October:_

It was much too warm for October, Marshall thought as he lay in a bed to which he was not yet accustomed, feeling the back-and-forth breeze of the electric fan across the room. It lifted his hair lightly, creating a gentle hum throughout the darkness, Marshall tossing and turning trying to get comfortable. He didn't understand himself sometimes. There was scarcely space for him on the mattress when Mary lay beside him. Why did he have trouble getting settled when she was gone?

It was most peculiar. Up until three months before, he'd spent more years than he wanted to count sleeping in a bed by himself.

The room was stuffy and warm, even with the air conditioning on. Marshall wondered if Mary had lied to him and said she paid her bill just to shut him up. She was known for being almost distastefully frugal, although he'd have thought her current state might endear her to the idea of a cooler atmosphere. She was forever complaining she was too hot.

Squinting at the clock on the nightstand, Marshall saw that it was almost 2:30 in the morning. He was beginning to think Mary had made a second pit-stop on her way back from the bathroom. Neither one of them were sleeping overly well – new living conditions, new baby on the way, plus Brandi's and Peter's wedding the next afternoon. Both of them were more concerned than either cared to admit that 'the kid' as Mary constantly referred to him, would not stay where he belonged during the nuptials.

Tired of trying to get to sleep, Marshall got out of bed in hopes that a glass of water would help him doze off, fully intending to check on Mary in the bathroom on his way. He knew this would only annoy her, but he couldn't help it. She was in a much more fragile state, no matter what she said.

Therefore, he was most displeased when he found her not in the restroom, but out in the living room with one of the lamps on, bathing the room in an orange and yellow orb. She was surfing her laptop, but she could hardly reach the buttons to type, her stomach was so enormous. As a result, she spent a lot of time navigating with the mouse.

Marshall sighed without thinking, too sleepy to catch himself from chastising her.

"_What_ are you doing?" he said in a hushed voice, venturing further into the room. "We have to be with Brandi by eight tomorrow morning; you need to be in bed."

"If it were up to you I'd be in bed twenty-four-seven, doofus," was her reply, eyes not leaving the screen. "You act like I'm an invalid."

"You really enjoy being difficult, don't you?" Marshall approached her on the couch, rubbing one eye with his fingers. "What is so important that it couldn't wait until after the wedding?"

Considering how much they'd all pooled into the ceremony over the last few months, he knew Mary was as nervous as he was that things weren't going to go according to plan. They both had to be resolutely calm because it was likely Brandi would be a basket case until the final, 'I do.'

"What?" Marshall pressed, snooping and standing to peer over her shoulder.

Up close, he saw that the roots of her hair were damp with sweat, and her cheeks were shiny under the glow of the lamp. He made a mental note to check and make sure the air conditioning was _actually_ running before they returned to bed.

Mary fed him an evasive look as Marshall stood above her, but didn't attempt to block the screen. Squinting to get a better look at it, the words, 'Pitocin' and 'breaking of waters' caught his eye, which told him everything he needed to know. He sighed for the second time in two minutes.

"You're looking up induction?" he sounded more annoyed than he meant to. "Why?"

"I'm sorry…" it was Mary's turn to sound irritated as she attempted to turn around and face him. "Are you the only one that gets to expand on your wealth of knowledge? At least the shit I'm looking up is useful!"

Seeing that he might get her to bed faster if he just talked with her for a minute, Marshall took a seat on the coffee table so he could face her. He didn't want her to have to take her feet off the couch anyway.

"We talked about this when I brought you home earlier…" he started to say.

"No we didn't," she argued, wagging a threatening finger. "You gave me that ridiculous spiel about how it may not even be necessary and not to worry and those quacks know what they're doing…"

"And you don't believe a word of it?" Marshall tried to clarify.

"I just want to see what I'm in for."

"At 2:30 in the morning?" Marshall pushed.

"You expect me to sleep in this heat wave!" Mary was shouting now and Marshall was about to tell her to calm down, but she provided all the evidence he needed when she sucked in her breath and shut her eyes, one hand going immediately to the right side of her rotund stomach.

"Jesus…" she cursed, eyes still closed, and although Marshall was used to all the Braxton Hicks she was experiencing by now, it still made him uneasy. He didn't like seeing her hurting.

"Would you look at what you're doing to yourself?" Marshall muttered, but without malice this time. "Give that to me," he indicated the laptop. "Put it away…"

Reluctantly, she obeyed, Marshall suspected just so she could have both hands free. The computer was dangerously close to teetering onto the floor anyway. He set it beside him on the coffee table without closing the lid and tended to Mary, who still looked to be in quite a bit of discomfort.

"Take a breath Mare…" he advised, not having seen her do so since the pain had struck. "Relax," he continued. "That'll help."

Cautiously, he reached his hand out to rub her shoulder lightly, and the touch seemed to recall her to a few deep breaths. Her cheeks were already pink from the weather outdoors, and this didn't help anything.

"You said they're not supposed to last longer than two minutes…" she finally said, shaking her head and blinking fast as the throb tapered away.

"That was about thirty seconds," Marshall informed her, sounding obnoxiously smart.

Mary scowled at his remark, still caressing the side of her stomach agitatedly as though not all of the twinge had completely left. Marshall decided he needed to make something known here, to get her to see that this was more than a game between them, that she couldn't afford to get worked up.

"Listen to me…" he began, tender but firm as he leaned in to face her. "You have high blood pressure," he said each word very distinctly to get his message across. "You _cannot_ get out of control. It's dangerous."

He could see that she was paying attention even if she might pretend not to later.

"You could end up with preeclampsia. You come across that in your reading?" he added.

"I was busy enough with induction," she grumbled, knowing he was right but not wanting to admit it. "They actually _break_ the bag of waters _for_ you? What the hell does that involve?"

Marshall sighed and sat back; slightly nettled she wasn't taking his warning to heart, but knowing she had other things on her mind. He really didn't want to upset her unnecessarily, but it would be a fine line between what to reveal to get her satisfied, but what to withhold so she wouldn't get distressed.

"They might not have to do that," Marshall told her, which was true. "Even if they _did_ induce you, your water might break on its own. They'd break your water with a hook…"

"A _hook_?"

"…If you didn't progress far enough during labor – if you stalled for some reason, or your contractions weren't getting closer together," he finished.

She didn't look fulfilled and her eyes kept straying to what she'd been reading, knowing there was more there he hadn't brought up, knowing he had tried to sugarcoat it.

"There are other ways," she claimed out-of-the-blue.

"Other ways of what?" Marshall sighed.

"To make you go into labor," she stared him down, willing him not to lie.

As if it mattered. He was horrible at fibbing in front of Mary. He never got away with it.

"Well, I suppose…" he hesitated, and then decided to go on as casually as possible, "I mean…they might strip your membranes but-."

"Okay, enough," Mary held up a hand, looking definitely squeamish now. "Forget it. I don't want to know."

Marshall wanted to remind her that she'd asked, but could see this would not be a very good idea. Whatever she said to the contrary, she was nervous and even _she_ couldn't seem to decide how much she really wanted to know. It was a morbid curiosity that had her up in the wee hours of the morning investigating when there was no one around to see how apprehensive she might be.

As it was, with the acceptance of the silence she shut her eyes and sighed, spreading her hands over the lower part of her belly. Marshall wished there was something he could do. He knew how uncomfortable she was and also knew without asking that this obsession not to be induced had to do with a lack of control. She'd had enough of that the last nine months.

Slowly, Marshall reached over and brushed some of the damp strands of hair away from her forehead, causing her to open her eyes.

"I know it's been rough on you Mare," he admitted, hoping this wouldn't earn him a smack. "I'm sorry."

Fortunately, she took the sentiment for what it was and just nodded, grateful to be understood.

"Let's go back to bed; get some rest before the big day…" he offered her his hand this time.

"I can't sleep," she didn't clasp his fingers and sighed again. "It kills my back."

"Lie on your side," Marshall suggested at once. "I'll rub your back."

Mary fed him an exasperated stare, "Yeah, and when are you gonna sleep? During the vows?"

"Don't you worry about me…" he said smugly, still offering his hand. "I am well-schooled in running on zero sleep. Besides, it'll be good practice," he winked.

Mary scoffed and shook her head, but finally curled her fingers into his and Marshall tugged her upward and into a standing position. He decided not to note that she rarely allowed herself to be helped up, but there was much on her mind and more than the figurative weight on her shoulders. She knew him well enough to know he wouldn't remind her of it at a later date.

Standing face-to-face wasn't as easy these days with Mary's belly in the way, but it also enlightened Marshall to another reason Mary might not be able to sleep. As his hand brushed the bump, he could actually feel how much the little one was moving around – a foot across the ridge, head near the bottom where it should be, but resolutely awake. A tiny life waiting just beneath.

"Looks like we're not the only ones staying up," he remarked as Mary rolled her eyes. "Hope he settles in soon."

"You and me both," Mary muttered in an undertone. "He's practically punching me. I swear to God…"

"Come on," Marshall interrupted before she could get started. "To bed."

Resigned, Mary walked with him to the bedroom and it was then that Marshall remembered his concern about the air conditioning – or lack thereof.

"Are you sure the air's on?" he posed as they hit the threshold.

"Why?" she wrinkled her nose.

"Because you're way too hot…"

"Flattering," she muttered.

"Way too _warm_," Marshall corrected himself with a groan. "You're sweating; it puts added stress on…"

"All right, all right…" Mary grumbled, ascending into the darkened room and reaching to adjust the dial on the wall. "Happy? If you knew how much I was paying for electric…"

"I _do_ know, actually," Marshall couldn't resist pointing out.

The conversation ended there as they both made their way into bed – covers pulled back, not bothering to sleep with the blankets. Mary kind of had to roll herself in, which prompted a very annoyed groan, but she made it eventually and even heeded Marshall's advice about sleeping on her side rather than her back. Once he was securely in behind her, he kept his promise and immediately started kneading her muscles.

She could've pounced him, then and there, if she were any condition to do so. He knew just the spots to hit; it gave her so much relief she wanted to stay this way forever, a thought that certainly didn't pass through her brain any other time of day. Moaning contentedly, she wondered vaguely why she didn't let herself be taken care of more often.

"You should go to sleep…" she muttered incoherently against her pillow, knowing she had to at least offer but prayed he would not take her up on it.

Fortunately, he was adept at reading her mind and just chuckled.

All her limbs were singing in sweet praise with every stroke; it was putting her into a trance – putting her to sleep.

"Jesus God Marshall, I love you…"

They were the last words she spoke before letting herself drift off, but Marshall heard them over and over again. He'd waited such a long time to hear her say them so forcefully, so naturally, with such strength and convictions. It made all those years of pining worth it. As did the life squirming inside Mary's belly that was going to become a reality any day.

The gentle breathing from beside him convinced Marshall his massage had done the trick. Mary was asleep – blissfully and no longer hurting, if just for a few hours.

Carefully, he pulled his hands away and leaned up on his elbow. Seeing her profile, serene and content, he gently brushed the hair floating over her cheek behind her ear. Who needed sleep when he could gaze at this all night?

"Take it easy little man…" Marshall found himself murmuring instead to what would soon be his son. "She thinks she's a badass, but you are the toughest case she's ever had."

With this, he kissed Mary's temple and smiled through the darkness.

"Goodnight mama."

**A/N: Fear not if you enjoy longer chapters (although I don't know if anybody does.) There are some later that are very lengthy just to get the 'shot' fully told. But I hope you liked this one too!**


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N: I'm glad some of you guys enjoyed the last chapter! I was worried it was a little too repetitious after the first three – and I worry that about future chapters too, but let's hope not. Everyone enjoy the episode tonight; even though I've read the spoilers and know who is at the door, I am still SUPER excited!**

**Oh, and by the by – if, for whatever reason, some of you missed the Sam's birth flashbacks, they are included in chapters fifteen through eighteen in 'The Girl You Are.' I say this because we are moving past! ;)**

XXX

_Three Hours, October:_

Mary blinked – slowly at first, and then opted to leave her eyes closed. There was a lot of work involved in opening just one of them, let alone both. This bed was warm and soft and the pillows felt so fluffy, so confining she could just lose herself all together. First her head, and then the rest of her beneath the blankets.

Her body, she could tell, was going through the telltale drummings experienced when she'd been pumped full of pain medication. Her skin tingled like a whole separate entity, like the thinnest most protective covering over soreness in her lower back and abdomen.

She was so-so sleepy, but not really tired. Had there been a difference before now?

She fully expected to drift off in a matter of moments, but the tiniest intuition in a remote corner of her brain sensed there was someone nearby. Someone she wanted to see, someone whose face she wanted to latch onto. This otherworld may have been cozy, but it was also unfamiliar.

Like a wizard with a wand, the most feather-light touch fluttered onto her cheek. The someone knew she was awake.

Blinking, she looked into Marshall's face floating above her own, his fingers on her flesh. There was stubble on his chin, but he was smiling so softly, so sweetly she wanted to bottle it and keep it close forever. To pull out for the moments less lovely than this.

"Hi…" his voice was even better.

So much better, she knew she had to answer.

"Hi," she muttered back, her throat croaky, muscles in her stomach tightening just a little even though she'd spoken only two letters.

His hand left her cheek and smoothed across her hair.

"How you feeling?" he was taking so much care to whisper, to not disturb.

There wasn't a word to describe how Mary was feeling. How did you identify the absurd, lingering achiness in her belly intermingling with the unexplainable pride and joy floating in the exact same region?

She smiled softly back at Marshall to match him.

"A little sore…" she never went with anything other than the truth. "What time is it?"

She'd lost track, coming to a little bit better, seeing that a low hanging sun was sneaking through the slats in the blinds. She didn't remember this room, but she didn't really care either.

"It's almost eight o'clock," Marshall obliged. "I was just gonna go down and see him; see if you wanted some company while I was visiting."

Only one word in there mattered. _Him_. The nameless, faceless, most beautiful _him_ in the entire world. She longed to see him too, but Marshall's idea seemed important to him. It was so very strange how she registered every emotion in his voice at the moment.

"It's eight o'clock?" she wanted to be sure.

"Yeah…" he sipped from a Styrofoam cup of coffee now. "In the morning."

Mary began to wonder if she'd not only lost track of the time, but what side of the equator they were on. When had _he_ come? Had that been in the morning – at night?

"When did he…?" she wanted to get this out just right. "When was he born?"

Marshall furrowed his brow, "When was he born?" she was concerning him.

"I just meant what time," she hadn't meant to make him worry.

He was all right now, and took care to stroke her hair another time. His nails against her scalp was wonderful, but it also made her want to go back to sleep.

"4:58 in the morning. Just before five o'clock," he reported.

His eyes just shined talking about him. That wonderful, magnificent _him_.

"And he's okay?"

Dimly, Mary recollected asking this before but other, much more dominating thoughts were invading her sanctuary – a squawking heart monitor, the inability to move forward, the fear. The fear was the worst.

Marshall was so patient as he knelt to kiss her cheek. Internally, she trembled with the contact.

"He is absolutely fine," he promised. "And absolutely gorgeous. I was just about to go and see him," he reminded her.

Take-charge Mary still lived somewhere in this free-floating world, and she came to a head hearing these words for a second time.

"I want to go with you."

Marshall was understanding, but firm. She recognized the look.

"Not right now," he said, moving his hand a third time and placing warm pressure on her shoulder. "You're really tired…"

"Sleepy," she corrected him unnecessarily, wondering if he would know the difference she felt.

"Sleepy, then," Marshall agreed. "I don't think they want you getting up just yet; not until they can get another look at you."

"They haven't looked enough?" Mary groaned as she rolled over onto her side into the cool place on her pillow, pleasant and fresh on her face.

Marshall chuckled, "Touché."

He could see that her desire to leave the bed came from more than simply wanting to be up-and-around, to feel like her old self. She wanted to see with her own two eyes how their son was holding up, and he did what he could to ease the thoughts of the formless being that lived in her subconscious right now.

"I will keep a hearty watch on him," he promised. "Meanwhile…" he was bracing himself, she could tell. "Shannon's and company are very likely to stage a coup if I don't give them a few minutes with the new mother," he offered a genial smirk. "Think you can handle that?"

Mary was not entirely disagreeable, merely slightly confused. She wasn't sure what she'd been dreaming about before she'd come around, but her mind was a little bit fuzzy and she didn't feel as though she had all her wits about her. She needed Marshall just to make sure.

"I didn't see them already?"

She didn't know why she thought she had, and Marshall obviously sensed this was not her trying to get out of a visit.

"Not that I'm aware of," he teased lightly. "They've been camped out at the nursery window for the last three hours begging to see you every time I walked by."

Mary nodded, but her uncertainty must've showed on her face even from her reclining position, because Marshall gave her reassurance once more.

"The pain meds might be a little disorienting," he explained. "It's normal and should taper the longer you're awake. If you start feeling nauseous at all, make sure you tell someone though, okay?" he added as a warning, and even though there was a polite question on the end there was no mistaking the tone.

He was lucky Mary had never felt more agreeable.

"Sure…" she whispered.

"Okay," Marshall leaned over to kiss her forehead, and Mary wanted to pull him in at the neck, to hold him closer and closer until she could hold him no longer; she'd never felt more in love in her whole life.

"You want me to sit the bed up before I go?" he asked. "Or are you good?"

Mary thought of her aching muscles and her bleary eyes and the taxing nature of conversation ahead with her family.

"No…" she said softly. "I'm a little sore…"

As soon as she said it, she realized she had once already and was embarrassed. The guise of being unsettled under the medication was vaguely upsetting and she had the strangest sensation, like she might cry. She didn't understand what that was about and, absurdly, that made her want to cry too.

"Mare…?" she heard Marshall whispering softly, and the saddened feeling vanished.

She snapped her eyes onto his.

"Are you sure you're all right with me going?" he wanted clarified. "I can stay and boot the crew out as necessary."

It was a nice offer, and made Mary grin because he knew her so well, but she wanted him to be with the baby. She didn't like the feeling of him all by his lonesome in the nursery, the unfamiliar faces of Jinx and Brandi with their noses pressed to the glass. Those gaping, cheesy smiles were sure to be slightly frightening at only three hours old.

"Go…" she was honest. "Let them in."

Marshall dispensed with words and headed for the door to do as told. Once he was gone, Mary blinked a few more times to orient herself with her surroundings. This room was not the one she'd given birth in; it was larger and contained a window, where the sun had risen above the Sandia Mountains in the distance. There was a small pile of gifts on her food tray at the end of the bed, and she felt a fluttering in her chest, wanting to open them like she was a little kid at Christmas.

But now, with Marshall gone, the pain seemed a little more heightened. His presence was so calming and the weirdest sense of isolation stole over her; her stomach was cramping and her lower back ached. She also realized she still had an IV in her arm and the tape was sticky and tight against her skin.

Her emotions were all over the place and she wanted Marshall to come back to explain why. Yet he was not the one who came through the door.

Jinx and Brandi, tiptoeing like elves and followed by Peter and Stan, were the individuals who arrived. Mary did her best to smile, but she couldn't discern whether she was or not.

"Good morning angel…" Jinx crooned at Mary's slumped figure inside the bed, practically dashing once she was halfway into the room to peck her cheek.

"Hi mom…" she groaned, shutting her eyes; it was a lot all at once, all of a sudden.

"It's so good to see you darling…" she continued to gush, patting her hair over and over like a dog. "We're all so happy for you…" she spoke of the group at large.

Mary opened her eyes another time and saw that Stan and Peter, at least, were being much more unobtrusive and standing at the far end of the room. Stan had his hands in his pockets and was glancing from Mary to the window and back again; Peter was perusing the gifts. Brandi, however, was bouncing at their mother's elbow in high anticipation.

However, her sister's words were at least rational.

"Mom, she's tired…" Brandi scolded as though Mary could not hear. "Back up a little bit…"

Brandi was one to talk, but Jinx at least took the suggestion to heart and scooted, nearly treading on Brandi's foot. Both of them were still beaming, but their faces were a little bit clouded. Mary wanted to go back to sleep.

"Of course she's tired!" Jinx proclaimed at her younger daughter, as though she'd called her an idiot. "You think I don't know she's tired? I've been here, you know…" she bragged. "Twice, as a matter of fact…"

"Then you should know not to suffocate her…" Brandi accused.

Now they were arguing. Were they really arguing? _Now_?

However, the banter was familiarly annoying, almost comforting. If not for the fact that it _was_, indeed, annoying.

"Ladies, maybe commence…" Peter finally suggested, putting down the blue gift sack he was examining. "Or you're going to be fearing the wrath of Mary when she's in any condition to unleash it."

The wrath of Mary? She kind of liked it.

Jinx and Brandi toned it down at these words; Jinx sat in the chair at Mary's bedside, Brandi at the foot. The corners still seemed a little close, but Mary could assume they didn't expect much out of her.

"How are you feeling, Mary?" Peter pressed on before the women could speak again.

"Okay…" she managed a little hoarsely.

"You'll be better in a few days, honey," Jinx assumed, patting her arm lovingly.

"Have you seen him yet, Mare?" Brandi interrupted, from where she perched cross-legged.

"Monkey!" Jinx hissed. "You know she saw him; right after he was born!"

"I meant _afterwards_…" Brandi rolled her eyes. "He is _adorable_, Mary! So-so-so cute! The prettiest baby in the whole nursery!"

"Like that's any surprise…" Jinx claimed maternally, as though she had something to do with it.

Mary could barely keep up, they were talking so fast. It was making her head spin. She'd wanted to see them, she really had, but Brandi's mention of seeing the baby had brought those rickety emotions back to the forefront.

Suddenly, there was _nothing_ more important than seeing him. She _had_ to see him. She had to see him _now_. She was his mother; why wasn't she with him? Why hadn't she insisted Marshall let her go down there? She unexpectedly thought she might burst if she didn't get out of this room and hold her son at this very second.

But her mother and sister were still chattering, Peter was still sifting, and Stan was still just standing there not saying a word. Her agitation must've been manifesting as pure drowsiness.

"Mary, I could not believe how fast he came…" Jinx was addressing her, she realized. "You were only here a couple hours…"

"Marshall let me stay at the house awhile…" she informed her softly.

God that seemed like a lifetime ago. Years and years since she'd been lying on that couch, twirling a strand of hair around her finger.

"Nine hours isn't _that_ fast," Brandi claimed, discrediting Jinx again.

"Brandi," Jinx scoffed, waving a no-nonsense hand. "Considering your first can sometimes take over twenty-four hours, nine is like lightning speed."

Mary was glazing over as she looked at Jinx; her mother's hand seemed to move in slow motion as she started stroking Mary's hair again. Her expression had turned sympathetic and doting as she prattled on.

"Oh darling…" her voice lowered dramatically. "I can't imagine how frightened you must've been when his heart rate dropped. Thank God he's all right."

"I was fine…" Mary said blankly, almost automatically.

At last, somebody had noticed how exhausted she was. It was Peter. She could've kissed him.

"Mary, do you want us to come back later?" he asked with her last phrase. "I'm sure you're spent."

Yes. That was exactly what she wanted, and she couldn't lie to Jinx even though her mother looked disappointed. Mary fed her the best innocent look she possessed where she sat at the bedside.

"We'll go home and change, honey," her mother took the glance for what it was. "Then Brandi and I will be back. I'm sure Peter and Stan need to get to work."

Mary nodded, she was so grateful to be understood. Jinx stood and kissed her head another time. Brandi, hopping off the end of the bed, grabbed her sister's fingers and gave them a quick smooch. The two of them and Peter called their congratulations as they exited, even telling Mary how good she looked, which she felt certain was a filthy, rotten lie.

Her family had almost disappeared when she caught Stan's shorter, balder figure about to be the last one out the door. And then she realized – she hadn't meant _him_. He could stay. Just for a minute. He hadn't even said anything.

"Stan…?"

The name almost didn't make it out her mouth, but it was enough. Her boss turned and raised his eyebrows expectantly, venturing back to the bed. He was careful not to utter a word until they were certain the others were gone.

"You need something?" he asked.

"No…"

She did, but she didn't know what it was. She had a vague recollection of one of the worst parts of the early morning prior, where the pain had been so intense she'd been throwing up, that she'd deliriously told Marshall she'd wanted her father.

That hole was still awfully large. She'd known it was dumb, known how foolish it was to believe, but his letters proved he kept track of her. This was his first grandchild. Was it so wrong to hope he might've shown up?

Yes, it was wrong. It was absolutely wrong.

She'd been silent a long time and Stan had become concerned. He patted her hair, gentler than Jinx.

"You sure, kiddo?"

No, she didn't feel very sure. Not with every emotion under the planet invading her mind in just ten minutes. She was lost and then grounded in no time flat and she wanted to go back to security again. In this millisecond, she was lost.

"I'm sure," she said it anyway.

"Okay," Stan nodded. "Get some rest," he advised, still patting. "Marshall will be back soon."

This reassurance was helpful. Very-very helpful. Her feet had hit the floor again.

She'd thought Stan was through and would leave, but he finished by rumpling her waves, all spread out on the pillow, and smiling genially.

"Congratulations, sweetheart," he whispered. "I saw him. He's gonna be quite the charmer."

She smiled, trying to keep her eyes from filling with tears.

"Thank-you," she murmured. And then, in an admission she had not planned, "I was worried he might not make it."

It was a good thing Jinx had mentioned his tiny heart before the fact; otherwise Stan wouldn't have had a clue what she was talking about. As it was, he frowned just slightly, obviously a little disheartened by the watery look in Mary's eyes. Seeing him look as such, Mary suddenly backed down.

"I don't know why I just said that…"

She really didn't. Why was she still speaking at all? Nothing was coming out the way it was supposed to; it was like her higher-order thinking system had completely shut down to make way for all the overpowering emotion.

Stan, however, was as tolerant as Marshall.

"I think having a baby kind of makes that mask you love to put up a little unnecessary, inspector," he winked and bent down to kiss her forehead. "Not to worry. I'm depending on your badass self to return in due time."

She smiled weakly, hoping she could be relied on to do that. Unexpectedly, Stan reached for her hand and squeezed it lightly; luckily the one without the IV. He looked so much taller than usual when she was all buried in the pillows like this – more imposing, more powerful. More trusted.

"I'm sleepy," she said for what felt like the fiftieth time, throwing away the use of 'tired' once again.

"I know you are," Stan reassured her. "That's really okay," he promised, teasing slightly, afraid she'd think being drained was something to be ashamed of.

"Okay…" she whispered with this. "See you later?"

"Count on it!" Stan called merrily as he made for the door. "And copy it too," he ended with the familiar phrase before he slipped beneath the crack and out-of-sight.

The same feeling of loneliness swept over Mary as soon as he was gone. Why couldn't she decide what she wanted? When they were here, she wanted them gone. When they were gone, she wanted them here.

She rolled over, resting on her back because even though it was still bothering her, the cramps in her stomach were worse. That was something else she didn't understand; she'd have thought all the unpleasantness would've come to a head when her son had made his appearance. Why did it linger?

As if her questions were about to be answered, there was a soft knock on the door and a nurse breezed in. She had strawberry blonde hair up in a curly ponytail; she looked to be in her mid-to-late thirties and her tag read, 'Kate.' She looked vaguely familiar, but the later moments of the birth were a little bit fuzzy.

"Hi Mary…" there was a smile on her face, but her perkiness was not overbearing as she fumbled papers on a clipboard.

"Do I know you?" she asked in a low voice at the mention of her name.

"You do not know me, but I know you," the woman said swiftly. "Kind of, anyway. I was in your delivery room."

"You were?" Mary questioned as Kate fiddled with her IV bag, furrowing her brows just slightly at whatever she saw.

"I was," she replied with a nod. "You were quite a trooper, a labor that fast without an epidural," she praised. And then, without even pausing to take a breath, "What would you say your pain level is, Mary?" more fooling with the IV. "Scale of one to ten – ten being the highest."

Mary considered. She wanted something to help with the achiness, but she didn't want them to _know_ she wanted something to help with the achiness. She was also tired of feeling muddled and she could bet more meds would conk her out again.

"I don't know…" she looked up at the woman. "Three…maybe four…"

Kate fed her a shrewd, knowing smile. Obviously, she was a trained professional and was discerning quite a few things about Mary's ailments without the help of the patient.

"Your husband warned me about you," she teased. "Marshall? He said you'd try to tough it out."

Mary was about to tell her Marshall wasn't her husband, but thought better of it. As it was, she was trying to figure out a good comeback for this assumption, but Kate evidently had her own ideas about how best to alleviate the pain.

"Tell you what," she said. "We're going to want to get this IV out within the hour, and we won't be able to do that if you still have medication through the vein," she went on. "I can give you an injection of something mild to dull your soreness a little bit."

This sounded okay, but Mary wanted a few more specifics.

"Will it make me tired?" she whispered.

Kate had a kind, reassuring smile and she patted Mary's arm. For once, Mary didn't mind.

"Yes," she was honest. "Probably, anyway. But I'd stock up on rest while you still can," she even winked.

Mary knew there was truth in this and she nodded, her way of accepting the drugs even though she did not relish another needle poke. But she could also tell how bruised her wrist was from the IV and wanted it out as soon as possible. Kate got busy at once, heading over to the counter across the room and pulling down supplies. Mary didn't expect her to keep talking.

"I didn't know that was your family forming the circus ring around the nursery," she joked with her back turned. "They're quite a crew."

"Something like that…" Mary sighed, relaxing into her pillows again.

"The brunette your mother?" Kate ventured a guess.

"Yeah…" a reluctant yawn escaped. "The blonde's my sister."

"How about the men?" Kate wanted to know now that they'd engaged politely; there was shuffling from her corner.

"One is my sister's fiancée…" she revealed, and then she remembered. "Or no…" she shut her eyes, her head pounding listlessly from talking. "He's her husband. They were married three days ago."

"Wow," Kate mused. "Been an exciting week at your place."

"If that's the word you want to use," Mary groused and Kate chuckled appreciatively.

She turned around, injection at the ready, and made her way back where she tilted the bed up, lifted the left sleeve of Mary's gown aside and started swabbing her with strong-smelling alcohol.

To avoid hurling over the scent, Mary finished, "The short, bald one is my boss."

"Your boss?" Kate was politely amused. "I can't imagine what it would've been like if mine had been around when my kids were born."

"Well…" Mary had to stifle another yawn. "Stan's different…"

Kate turned briefly businesslike as she dispensed with the alcohol, ready to fire.

"All right…" she began. "You should just feel a prick and some pressure Mary…"

Even though Mary was not squeamish about needles, she opted to close her eyes against the procedure and the pierce was not bad; the strain was worse, her threshold still a little bit low. Fortunately, it didn't last and Mary was able to open her eyes once more.

"Good…" Kate soothed kindly. "You're all set. That should help with the contracting, and it shouldn't make your arm too sore."

Mary was grateful to hear that, and she caught a grin on Kate's face as the nurse noticed something in the doorway, packing up her equipment to leave the patient in peace.

"Looks like I got done just in time too…" she said. "You have a visitor…"

Mary turned when Kate disappeared from the space blocking the door and she felt her heart soar. All her uncertainty, her helter-skelter emotions, her confusion – it all vanished. Marshall, followed by yet another nurse, was just coming through and in his arms…

Was _him_.

The second nurse left them without a word, and Kate skipped out soon after, Marshall offering his brief thanks for giving Mary some relief. But Mary herself could no longer feel anything at all except that she knew, without a shadow of a doubt; this was the piece that had been missing. This was why she'd been so misplaced, so out-of-sorts.

It was the absence of her son.

Marshall was sitting down at her bedside, shifting the little boy into the crook of his arm, grinning goofily into that tiny little face. Mary was pleased to see that her son was not choked in blankets, but wearing a soft, pale blue sleeper and matching hat, sans pom-pom. He seemed awake as he shifted in Marshall's grasp, but his eyes were still closed.

"You brought him to me," she finally said, stating the obvious.

Marshall looked at her and smiled, rubbing his hand on the top of the baby's head.

"Of course," he murmured softly, mindful of their guest. "You wanted to see him and since you couldn't go down there…" he cut himself off and powered on. "You didn't get that much time with him earlier before you conked out."

So little Mary had been worried she'd forgotten what he looked like.

"Come on…" Marshall stood up part-way, leaning forward and Mary, seeing what he was doing, held out her arms in anticipation.

She felt thankful she'd already held him once before this moment; she wasn't as nervous as she had been the first time.

"Go see mama…" Marshall crooned. "Go see mama…" he slipped his long fingers off the baby's back.

Mary felt her hands sliding into their proper spots – one hand on his head, one hand on his butt. She curled them into their suitable areas and he fell right in place. This was easy.

Marshall sat back down and watched, grinning so proudly he looked like he might burst. But Mary was watching the face of her son, feeling the warmth and lightness he seeped into her when he was in her arms. She'd felt the same thing just hours before and until now, had been concerned she wouldn't feel it again. She knew she was ramped up on medication and emotion, but she hadn't been able to stop that thought from forming. She'd needed him that badly.

"God…look at him…" she whispered.

His rosy red cheeks, his tender skin, the way his fingers flexed in and out of their sleeper, little toes flailing at the bottom. Ten on the hands, ten on the feet, eyelashes and brows, arms and legs, mouth, nose, beautiful little belly, steady beating heart. He was the closest thing to perfection Mary had ever seen.

"Marshall…" she murmured suddenly.

Her heart had flickered momentarily, like she'd known what her child had been about to do – but she didn't know how she knew it. Yet he worked his minuscule little mouth for a fraction of a second, before she saw his eyelids flutter, his long lashes flurrying. Mary hadn't realized she'd been holding her breath until she saw two tiny slits in his face looking back at her.

Marshall couldn't see from his post and she needed to share.

"His eyes are open…" her voice was eerie, mystical.

"They are?"

Marshall leaned and, if possible, his smile got even wider.

"Hey-hey…" he said softly, hand back on his boy's softball-sized head. "There he is…"

"Has he opened his eyes before?" Mary demanded at once.

"No," Marshall shook his head, gazing into those dark orbs. "Not while I've been with him, anyway. He knows you, Mare."

Mary wasn't sure this was true. How could he possibly? He was three hours old. He didn't know anybody.

"He knows me…?" she slipped in anyway.

"He _lived_ in you," Marshall insisted quietly. "He knows your voice, your skin…"

He saw that Mary was latching on, but not entirely convinced. He stretched his neck and kissed her cheek, feather-light.

"He knows you mean safety."

Mary thought that sensation to burst into tears would return at this moment, but nothing of the kind came to pass. She was too enraptured even for a bunch of bawling. She couldn't have asked for anything better than this in her whole life, not even James showing up on her doorstep. There was something odd in the little one's eyes that reminded her of James and it made her chest pang, but it also made her feel like he was here, and that was more than enough right now.

Marshall sensed she was through with all the sentiment and just let her gaze, choosing mindless conversation ahead.

"How were Jinx and company?"

The scoff that came from Mary was very genuine. Marshall appreciated hearing it.

"Same old," she shook her head, eyes not leaving her son's. "Feeding me crap about how I, 'look great,'" another sneer. "Give me a break."

"Funny…" Marshall teased. "I think they're right on the money. I've never seen you look more beautiful."

Now Mary laughed for real, completely rueful and disbelieving, causing their son to stir.

"You're reaching, doofus," she claimed. "Where do you get that?"

But Marshall was as certain as ever as the words spouted from his ever-efficient mind.

"Because I've never seen you look happier," he concluded. "Then you do right now."

**A/N: The nurse was random, I know – I'm not sure why I included her LOL! But hopefully the rest was good; thanks for the reviews!**


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: Thank-you again for the lovely reviews! I am glad those who are reviewing are enjoying! Thanks to everyone who has alerted also – or anyone that is reading! Just to cover all the bases!**

**Another shorter chapter, but I honestly think it's the last one that's brief if that tells you anything about the stuff ahead LOL!**

XXX

_One Week, October:_

She was tired.

That was all that Mary knew. That was the only thought that made it into her overly, completely, utterly sleep-deprived brain. There wasn't an inch of her that was _not_ tired.

Her arms were tired. Her legs were tired. Her eyes, hands, feet, all of her – even her hair. All of it was threatening to break apart, to sever totally in two at the nearest moment. She'd been in a US Marshal for over ten years, suffered through twelve-to-thirteen-hour work days, endless road trips where she'd had to stay alert to drive, grueling training sessions where her body took a severe beating for an entire week. And she'd never once been this tired.

But she kept at it. Exhausted, frustrated, stressed to the max, she continued to jostle her arms, to put some sort of bounce in her legs, to keep her eyes open. Because if he would just stop crying, her goal of getting back to bed might actually come true. It was maybe the only goal she had left these days.

"Sam…" she whispered, staring down into his wailing face, his cheeks flushed with red. "Please…" she was trying so hard not to beg. "Please…"

It was three in the morning. He'd been awake at least since two and crying since 2:15 after Mary had fed him and it had taken her ten minutes to get him burped. What, exactly, was her problem? Marshall got that satisfying belch what seemed like seconds after he ate.

He'd come in twice already. She sent him away both times, more agitated with the second visit. If she was going to lean on him now, she was going to lean on him later, and how would she learn otherwise? Marshall couldn't do everything.

Evidently, neither could she.

"Let's sit for a second…" she suggested lamely. "Maybe you'll like that better…"

Mary severely doubted it, but let herself fall into the rocker by the crib anyway to give her legs a break. She was going to have to put him down soon or her arms were going to give out from all the bouncing she was doing.

Sam, if possible, bawled even louder with the drop. Mary sighed and shifted him higher into the crook of her arm, cradle-style just as Marshall had taught her. He wasn't wet, and she'd changed him once already. His sleeper was pale blue printed with tiny white rabbits.

Shutting her eyes against the noise, she tried for the hundredth time to remember Marshall's words of wisdom when he cried; even though she'd gone over it sixty times since Sam had gotten like this.

_He's crying because he's uncomfortable. Something is bothering him, and he needs you to help him fix it. _

She went over the list again, even though she knew it wasn't going to help her any.

_Hungry._

_Wet._

_Hurts._

_Burped._

_Too cold._

_Too hot._

She had done everything she could think of. She'd even changed his sleeper after she'd changed _him_, in case he had been too warm in the fleece one. She'd put a blanket on him in case he was too cool in the cotton, but it made no difference.

"Sam…" she murmured miserably into his tear-streaked face. "Smush, what's wrong?"

As if he could answer. But if he didn't give her a clue soon, she was going to start crying too. This frustrated her almost to the breaking point. She could not fall apart. It had only been a week. What sort of mother would she be?

"You are plainly telling me I suck at this," she snarked in her delirium. "Think you could give me a hint on how to do better, 'cause I've got nothing."

She had thought joking – even sarcasm – would make her feel more like her old self but it did nothing of the sort. Sam continued to cry and Mary stood back up, shifting him side-to-side in the middle of the darkened room.

"Lie down…lie down…" she murmured to herself. "Just for a second…"

Knowing she was going to collapse if she didn't let go of him, Mary gently placed him back in his crib whether he wanted to be there or not and sunk to her knees on the floor. Closing her eyes and reopening them, she stared through the bars like a jail cell at his little body.

"I'm trying Sam…" she whispered over his sobs. "I'm trying so hard…"

It was the admission that she was doing her best and it wasn't enough that made her shed the tears. They rolled down her cheeks out of so many different outlets – exhaustion, sadness, failure, insecurity. The list went on and on and her frustration level was rising with every drop that fell. She did not want to be crying.

Crouched on the floor and without the weight of Sam in her arms, she realized just how much she ached. Her body had not been her own since the delivery, and her belly was the most bizarre shape. It had become a lumpy, misshapen mess and she hated herself for wanting to look better. She worried about her capability to fire her gun in such a state.

Even as badly as she wanted to quit, she was still weeping quietly when she heard his voice for the third time.

"Mary."

She couldn't turn. She knew how desperate she must look, kneeling on the floor, face pressed against the bars of the crib as though she were praying for guidance.

"Go away," she ordered with all the strength she could muster.

Maybe he wouldn't listen.

"It's not like I'm sleeping anyway," he was still in the doorway, she could tell.

They were close, but she needed to keep it up to the bitter end.

"I can do this myself."

"You can," he assured her, and she heard the creak that meant he'd stepped inside part-way. "That doesn't mean you don't need a break."

Why was he being so reasonable at three in the morning?

"What if I don't need it?" she spat even as her vision blurred against the tears and the poles of the crib went fuzzy in the presence of the wetness on her cheeks.

She did need it. She needed it so bad it was killing her.

She felt Marshall place his hand on her shoulder and that was all the leeway she needed. Her knees buckled even though she was already on the floor and the tears fell faster.

"Help me…" she moaned, hating herself for it but knowing she had no other choice. Sam needed something better.

Slowly, she stood up even as her son kept on with his chorus of cries and slumped pathetically into Marshall's chest. He didn't even put his arms around her in a full-blown hug; he just let her rest there, smoothing her hair when he heard her let out a tiny sob.

"Go to bed," he said calmly. "I'll take care of him."

Mary shook her head and pulled away, despising a weak-willed self she hadn't known existed emerge in the blubbering she was doing. It was making her feel even more horrible.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" she burst, wiping her eyes fervently.

"Nothing is wrong with you," Marshall decided, still more calmly.

"I am sitting here bawling when he needs me!" she informed Marshall angrily, and saying the words aloud only made it worse.

"Mare, your hormones are completely off-the-chart," the man informed her. "There's nothing you can do about that – you can't control it. They're gonna be that way for a couple more days; it takes a little while for your body to get back in-sync."

The loss of control did not make her feel better. Marshall stepped over and lifted Sam from the crib, shushing and clucking and nuzzling the crying infant in the high spot on his chest. Sam began to whimper pitifully with this.

"My body?" Mary shot back with a rueful laugh. "You think _this_ is my body?" she gestured up and down her frame. "What planet do you live on, doofus? I was a prisoner for nine months; I was supposed to go back to normal after I popped him!"

"Go to bed," Marshall repeated sedately. "You need to sleep."

"I need to figure out what I am doing wrong!" she was yelling now, which was sure to escalate the situation. "I haven't slept in a week and I still haven't figured out what I'm doing wrong! I do everything you tell me and it doesn't make a difference!"

She really _did_ want to go to bed, despite her protests. She knew she could doze through the racket without a problem, but she could not just give up. She could not give up without a solution.

Marshall was eerily tranquil in the presence of their desperately unhappy child, here in the moment with a breathless and irritable Mary. He just stepped forward and offered her Sam like a bribe, shifting as he usually did when he wanted to pass him off.

Mary was perplexed and didn't have the energy to figure him out along with everything else.

"What are you doing?"

"Take him," Marshall indicated with a jerk of his head.

He was insane. He was completely insane, but she was too tired to tell him that and just did what he said.

Sam did not quiet once in his mother's arms, and Mary's patience wasn't going to take Marshall's games. Fortunately, he chose to speak up.

"Okay," he nodded as she stood before him. "What are you thinking about?"

"What am I _thinking_ about?"

"What are you thinking about," Marshall repeated.

Everything. Nothing. She was out-of-her-mind thinking she could be a mother. Sam could obviously see she was not fit for the job. She'd thought she was a fairly intelligent person, but this experience proved otherwise. It was going to be a long eighteen years.

And she was tired already.

"That I'm an idiot and he probably wishes he could trade me in," Mary said to voice all of this, bouncing him automatically.

Marshall did not even look exasperated. He just nodded.

"Okay," he began for the second time. "Go to the other end of the spectrum."

"What?" she had to raise her voice to be heard over Sam's whimpering.

"Pretend you're competent," Marshall shrugged unconcernedly. Before Mary could rebuttal, "Pretend he adores you and he wants nothing more right now than to be safe and warm and go to sleep in his mama's arms."

Just the thought was obnoxious to Mary. Who the hell did he think he was fooling? She was too fatigued to _think_ at all, let alone anything this fabricated. She was _going_ to hit him later when there wasn't a baby in her arms.

Marshall clearly knew what was going on in her mind and pressed on.

"Just try it," he whispered. "For me."

Mary ordinarily did not respond to such ridiculous methods of guilt, but at this point, what else could she do? Sighing and closing her eyes, trying to block out the whining, she found herself venturing back to the rocking chair. She wasn't sure why her feet took her there, but she fell into the seat, pulling Sam in next to her breast. Pushing her foot into the floor, she let the chair slide into a rhythm – forward and back, forward and back.

What must it be like to have a child that looked up to you? A child that trusted you? Would Sam be like that one day? Would he run into her arms at the end of the day? Would he kiss her goodnight, would he tell her silly stories, would he come to her when he was hurt or scared? She found she was slipping into fantasies now of an older, currently nonexistent Sam that did all those things – a vague and formless being in her subconscious she wasn't sure would ever come to pass. It didn't even occur because Marshall had told her to let it. It just happened, pulled itself in as she lost herself in the cushions on the rocker, as she let the cadence, the pulse of the runners sink her into a trance.

With the thought her shoulders slumped, but she held Sam secure. Her breathing slowed when her eyes fluttered shut.

"That's my boy…" she heard Marshall croon and it was only then that Mary realized.

He was quiet. And when she allowed her eyes to roam his face for a fraction of a second, there was the telltale sign of sweet relief. He was asleep, his tiny mouth partially open and working slowly against Mary's chest as he did when he had his bottle.

The pressure on her chest was different now. The room seemed to be ringing in the absence of the cries, and Mary was suddenly aware that her cheeks were sticky and hot from the frustration, but Sam was warm pressed against her. His tiny body rose and fell with every breath and even though his lips weren't closed, he shifted in his dream, rubbing his own cheek against the fabric of Mary's shirt.

"Come on…" Marshall whispered through the silence, and Mary slowly stood and gently placed Sam back in his crib where he remained content and silent against the blankets.

Free now, Mary turned to Marshall and couldn't help herself from wondering. How had he done it?

"For the record…" he said in a quiet voice as he stepped forward and kissed her forehead. "You _are_ competent. He _is_ safe with you and he's been on the planet seven days and he adores you as much as any one-week-old adores his mother."

Mary wasn't sure she believed him, but she nodded anyway because she didn't care enough at the moment to argue.

"But when _you_ relax…" his hand was on her shoulder now. "He will too."

She'd never even thought of it, but she was sure he had to be right. He was right about everything.

"I want to go to sleep," was her less-than-poetic response, and Marshall smiled.

"Then let's go to sleep," he suggested.

"For _your_ record…" Mary couldn't resist saying before they left the blissful silence of Sam's bedroom. "You can't give up on me when I'm like this."

Marshall smiled again and pulled her into his arms, into the shelter and security of his embrace. It was her turn to kiss him and when she slipped back, he was serious.

"And _you_ can't give up on _him_ when you're like this."

**A/N: Like I said up front, I do scrunch the time closer together at the beginning because I felt like there was more to tell and that little ones change in shorter amounts of time than older kids. By the time Sam reaches two, the shots or chapters just go in yearly increments, give or take.**

**I hope everyone liked last night's episode of the show too! I LOVED it, but then I love them all. The end tore my heartstrings right in two; I've been waiting so long to see Mary's face in that moment and Mary McCormack knocked it out of the park.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/N: Thank-you again for the kind reviews! I do so appreciate it!**

**For whatever reason, I am partial to writing more specifically from Mary's standpoint; all my stories are more centered on her feelings and thoughts than on Marshall's (for the most part) but here's an attempt at some Marshall – some father/son Marshall. :)**

XXX

_Three Months, January:_

The buzz was as familiar as the back of a hand, the sight of their child's eyes, as automatic as breathing, blinking, or walking. It was as much a part of Mary as anything else in her life. The buzz and vibration meant one of many things – Brandi was on her way over, Marshall was going to be late, Stan needed her to come in, where did Mary keep Sam's emergency pacifier.

But as the darkness pressed in on her and the stillness of the air beyond her window became apparent, Mary knew this buzz that floated out of her Blackberry sang of option number three. It was the middle of the night – early morning – and that meant Stan needed one or both of his inspectors in a situation.

Groping and choosing not to open her eyes, Marshall grunting to her right, Mary closed in on the phone and managed to bring it to her ear.

"Yeah," was all she got out and very croakily at that.

"Sorry about the hour kiddo," Stan said up front. "But I'm gonna need you."

"For what?" eyes still shut, trying to capture a few more fruitless minutes of rest.

"Leo Billups," he reported without further ado.

Leo Billups. Mary's mind searched as frantically as it could in the wee hours of the morning, but she wasn't coming up with anything. Begrudgingly, she slipped her lids open in hopes that this would promote some comprehension. The room was pitch black; she could barely make out her closet doors beyond the bed.

"Saw his mother murdered…went to live with Carter and Wendy…"

Right. Some of this was starting to make sense.

"Vernon came into the program to be in Albuquerque," Mary voiced throatily as she recalled Leo's biological father. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," Stan replied. "Anyway, Vernon's actually the issue. Now that Leo's older, he's wanting to spend some more time with the guy and the Billups' are getting kind of heated up about it…"

It was all Mary could do not to fall right back to sleep, especially with Marshall still zonked next to her.

"Carter, specifically," Stan clarified. "I guess Leo, in his infinite teenage wisdom, tried to run away from home and there was a bit of an uproar."

"They find him?" Mary tuned in a little better at the mention of the real issue.

"Yeah," Stan assured her. "But I'm not all that confident about the home situation at the moment; I'd like you or Marshall to go over and secure the place, check it out, have a chat with Leo about bolting when things suck…"

"All right…" Mary rubbed one of her eyes with her hand, better alert now that she had the problem. "I'll let him know," she finished, not catching on to the fact that Stan had said 'or' not 'and' when referring to the witness; it was programmed into her that they did everything together.

"My apologies, inspector," Stan emphasized for the second time. "I wouldn't call unless I thought it was necessary."

"Mmm hmm…" was all Mary could say in response before she slipped the cell away and hit the off button.

Although she was exhausted and would've loved to crash back out, Mary was hard-wired to go through the motions when such a scenario presented itself. It got her juices flowing, and she wouldn't do it if she didn't love it on some bizarre level.

She turned and clapped Marshall on the shoulder to wake him up.

"Marshall…" she whispered. "Marshall…" she added a light shove.

"Mmm…what?"

"Stan – Leo Billups," was her brief response, and she was already out of bed, opening her accordion-style doors to put some clothes on.

Pulling out a pair of jeans she was pretty sure hadn't been washed and a shirt with long sleeves due to the fact that it was winter, her eye caught the clock on the nightstand pulling her pajama top over her head. 4:45 in the morning.

Wordlessly, she threw Marshall his own pair of pants and belt, and some random button-up of an unknown color she couldn't make out because it was so dark. They dressed wordlessly, not facing one another; they had the same built-in mechanism to just go when the alarm sounded. They were firefighters and doctors and counselors all rolled into one.

It wasn't until they bumped in the narrow hall, neither one paying much attention to where they were headed in their drowsiness, that Marshall came to life.

His eyes scanned her up and down, skeptical and confused.

"Why are you dressed?" his voice was hoarse and laced with the after-effects of sleep.

"I'm not going over there in pajamas, doofus," she said smartly, wondering what kind of question this was supposed to be.

If possible, he looked even more lost, if that was indeed the message she was getting from his weary eyes.

"Going over where?"

Mary was perplexed and looked at him properly to respond.

"What, are you rusty?" she wanted to know. "Witness – showdown – phone call. I'm there."

"I thought I was going…" Marshall continued uncertainly.

"You _are_," she insisted. "You and me – partners. Hello. Eight years now. Where you been?"

Marshall just shook his head like she was being a complete moron, and she did not understand the calamity. Until…

"If _we're_ both going to tend to a witness…" he pressed distinctly, like she might be hard of hearing. "Who's going to stay with…?" his eyes flickered to the second bedroom door up the hall.

Oh. Dear. God.

She hadn't. She _hadn't_. But Mary knew that feeling as though her heart was sinking like a stone meant she absolutely, without question, indisputably _had_. She'd forgotten.

She'd _forgotten_ about Sam.

"Sweet Jesus…" she breathed, putting up a hand to her head and trying to make sense of how she'd managed such a thing.

It was that blasted way she'd been programmed; she'd been doing the same thing for so long, it just took over. Lack of sleep, delirium; her body had kicked into autonomy, the autonomy that did not include her child.

Still, there was nothing to be done about it now and she had places to be.

"I'll call Jinx…" this was also a habitual response, and she was halfway to pulling her Blackberry out of her jeans, when Marshall's fingers closed around her wrist.

Looking up, she was marginally startled by the resolute compilation his features had settled into.

"What?" she hissed, now troubling to keep her voice down as she'd recalled her son snoozing just beyond.

"You're not calling Jinx to come over here at five in the morning," he stated firmly.

Mary was taken aback, and marginally exasperated by such a command. Who did he think he was fooling? Jinx – or Brandi – came over all the time. They'd talked about this when Sam was born, but they'd also talked about something else and Mary was about to be reminded very quickly what it had been.

"This is a choice we have to make," Marshall went on firmly in an undertone. "We knew when Sam came along that there were compromises we were going to have to make. Either you call Delia and go, or I'll call Delia and go," his blue eyes had that sharp grayness they got when he was serious.

He proved just _how_ serious with his final word.

"We're not going to leave him before sunrise."

Mary was baffled by the no-nonsense way he was speaking to her, and so early in the morning. But he knew how Mary could be, knew she would get argumentative and try to finagle a way for both of them to brave their work and get Sam saddled with an unsuspecting family member.

But Marshall wasn't going to live that way – he wasn't going to let his son have fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants parents; he'd made a promise to himself. One was better than none, and that was where they were right now.

"I'm not a child…" Mary finally grumbled. "I can grasp the concept without an ultimatum," she informed him snottily.

"No ultimatum," Marshall was clear and clean. "But it's one thing to _say_ we're going to live a certain way, it's another to stand by it," he was big on principles. "I want one of us here – you or me," he wasn't backing down. "Better decide who it's gonna be or Stan's going to wonder what's up."

Mary wanted to argue with him, but how could she? He'd covered every base, he'd sealed every crack. She'd known this was important to him, but they hadn't had to deal with it until now. During the day worked – Jinx or Brandi was enlisted while she and Marshall ran all over the place like regular working parents. But he was right; the middle of the night was a different story.

And yet, Marshall also knew that her passion for her work as well as her love for her son couldn't be compared and he needed to give her the opportunity so she wouldn't feel badly about leaving Sam behind.

"Go…" he placed his hand on her shoulder, peering down into her green eyes; big in the half-light of the dim hallway bulb. "He was your witness…" he reminded her. "I'll stay with the sheriff."

She didn't _want_ to go. But she _did_ want to go.

"I shouldn't…"

"You're not some fifties housewife," Marshall placated her. "You're a working woman, and duty has called. Sam's not suffering from one nightly excursion," he was talking an awful lot for so early in the day. "We'll adjust as needed down the road."

Once again, Mary couldn't fight him. And on cue, it was obvious their voices had carried because whimpering sounded from behind the door. Mary was about to leap into action, but Marshall stopped her.

"Go," he repeated. "You've got somewhere to be; one of us has to do it and this time it's you."

Mary just shook her head and swallowed.

"Okay…" she murmured, knowing she needed to get going. She couldn't leave it off, "Love you…" she stretched and planted a quick kiss on his lips.

"Love you too," Marshall assured her, but she was already shuffling down the hall, grabbing her tote where it lay on the couch.

She cast him one last fleeting glance before he nodded his approval and she was out the door, mindful of shutting it quietly in her wake.

Marshall, feeling a bit foolish fully-dressed and nowhere to go, did the only logical thing once Mary was gone. He eased open the door to Sam's nursery, where the fussing magnified now that there was nothing in the way to dampen the sound. He bent down and notched the nightlight plugged in to the outlet so he could see better.

"Hey Sam…" he whispered to his boy once he reached the crib, fiddling with the mobile of pastel ponies above his head, but he persisted in whining. "What's got you up so early, my boy?"

He was probably hungry. Usually, he managed to hold off until about 5:30 or so, but obviously the uncharacteristic movement had stirred him sooner.

"Oh-five-hundred hours…" his father mused philosophically. "Quite a way to start the day, sheriff…"

Marshall reached into the confines of the crib and pulled Sam out, spreading him upright against his chest. He gently cupped the back of his head with his hand, still precariously heavier than the rest of his body. He struggled to hold it up on his own, and kept fussing even though Marshall did his best to soothe him.

"Let's get a look at you sir…" he teased lightly, laying his son on the changing table. "Before we find you something to eat."

Sam calmed a little as Marshall unsnapped his sleeper – the one Carolyn had given him and Mary for Christmas that had once belonged to Marshall himself. He loved its vibrant red color; still bright even all these years later. The way the cowboys seemed to chase each other around the fabric; the worn cotton against the seat.

"Is that what you were all worked up about?" Marshall chattered softly as he removed his son's diaper. "You goofy boy…"

He made a face, sticking his tongue out and waggling his fingers. Sam's whimpers abated and lightness snuck into his blue eyes. Wanting to keep it going, Marshall bent and pressed his lips to his bare belly and blew a raspberry.

"You taste so good!" he joked, as if Sam would understand. "Yummy-yummy-yummy in Sammy's tummy!"

His son smiled just slightly, tongue poking out of his toothless mouth. Marshall continued to try and keep him content while he got him changed and redid his sleeper, pulling him into warmth once more.

"Come with me sheriff…" he scooped him up one-handed into cradle-style; he was barely small enough to still fit in the crook of his arm, but the little one obviously enjoyed the security it brought and settled in with his daddy.

Marshall took his boy out to the living room, snapping on a few lights as he did so and busied himself preparing a bottle of formula for Sam to chomp on. His son's mouth was working furiously in anticipation of such an event; his clock as involuntary as his mother's. Once he'd made enough, he settled into the chair on the far end of the couch and offered his mixture to Sam, who latched on at once.

"Such a fine boy…" Marshall crooned at his quick acceptance, rubbing the lack of hair on his head. "So smart…" he whispered. "Always know just what to do…"

Unable to resist with how enchanted his child made him and confident nobody was going to walk in on them, Marshall managed to undo the buttons on his shirt with his free hand and swaddle Sam against his skin. He absolutely loved the way he felt all snuggled in close, and saw no reason Mary should have all the fun just because she was a woman.

"You want to sing a song, Sam?" Marshall asked, knowing this was something else he couldn't do with Mary around because she found it unbearably corny. "What song should we sing?"

Marshall considered, trying to choose one he thought would lull Sam back into a trance once he finished his bottle.

"Golden Slumbers is one of my favorites, sheriff…" he whispered, feeling his cheek against the coarse hair on his chest. "What do you say?"

Sam's only response was to stare up at him with those enormous eyes of his, as if to say Marshall had all the power. He held all the cards, all the supremacy to make all the right choices, to make everything okay. Every part of it told Marshall _trust_. He trusts you and it's your job to fulfill that no matter what the cost.

Kissing his head, Marshall began to hum. He murmured, sweet and low, poking a gentle finger into Sam's soft, working cheek.

Grinning, Marshall started to rock him back and forth as the formula in the bottle dwindled, whispering the lyrics line-by-line.

He could've been merely exhausted, but Marshall could've sworn Sam had actually been listening. The way his eyes probed back and forth, never leaving his father's face, hanging onto every word and every lyric as though they brought him hope or comfort. His mouth sucking up his early meal had even begun to taper.

"My handsome man…" Marshall slipped the bottle out of his rounded lips, seeing he was through. "So attentive, I say."

He wondered if there would come a day when he didn't think everything Sam did was completely and utterly perfect. He severely doubted it. It didn't seem possible.

Jostling the little one out of the crook of his arm, Marshall set the empty bottle on the coffee table and sat Sam up and began to pat his back to burp him. Unfortunately, he was nearly startled out of his grip when his phone, reminiscent of Mary's, started to vibrate on the armrest.

"Huh…" Marshall shifted him as well as he could while he persisted in trying to get that belch. "Wonder if that's mama…"

Who else could it be at this hour? It was slowly inching toward six o'clock, but Mary really hadn't been gone that long. It could always be Stan asking which one of them had actually braved the rising sun for the run-amok witness.

"Oh…" he murmured, trying to distract Sam who was fussing again from a full and un-burped belly. "It's Grandma…"

Marshall tried to rein in his worry as he hit the talk button, but he completely forgot to say hello – between wondering why his mother was calling and Sam's pitiful cries.

"Mom?" he posed at once, attempting to get Sam more comfortable. "Everything all right?"

"I'm fine, dear," Carolyn assured him gently. "Just up for a little midnight snack; I know my grandson usually likes his breakfast around this time…"

She was trying to be casual, but nothing erased the fact that his widowed mother was puttering around at what was even an earlier time in Kansas. In a big empty house. All by herself. Just three months out from losing her husband of forty years in a highly unexpected fashion.

"But, what are you doing up?" Marshall couldn't resist even though she'd already told him. "You need your rest, mom."

"To do what, honey?" she teased.

Marshall, admittedly, didn't have a good answer for that. Still, it was highly disconcerting. He didn't like to think of his mother all alone. He ought to call Griffin or Julian and get them to check on her more often.

"Well, Sam's not being his _most_ charming self at the moment…" he diverted, clamping the phone on his shoulder to pat his son's back with both hands. "I just fed him…"

"Oh, as if that Sammy boy can be anything _but_ charming," the admiring grandmother said decidedly, as though her opinion settled the matter.

Marshall chuckled as well as he could, and just when Sam was about to reach some truly epic wailing, the burp came – satisfying and maybe even a little louder than usual.

"Good boy…" Marshall whispered, forgetting his mother could hear.

Sam shuddered a little, like he'd been caught off guard by the sound and Marshall used his trusty towel to wipe the corners of his milk-stained mouth. Carolyn was patient as he arranged him back in his lap to regroup and turn serene again.

"Sorry mom…" he rubbed gentle circles onto Sam's back; this often helped him doze off.

"Don't mention it," Carolyn was agreeable. "You decide to let Mary catch up on sleep this morning?" she asked with a reluctant yawn. "Offer to take the early shift?"

Marshall chortled, "In a matter of speaking," he told her. Sam coughed in his high-pitched warble and his father eased him, "Shh…"

Once he'd finished hacking, Marshall reached for the handy pacifier on the coffee table and gave it to his son, where he sucked contentedly.

"Mary had something to take care of," he continued evasively. "Work."

Marshall hated having to be so secretive. He almost felt worse because Carolyn was always so understanding, unlike Seth who had badgered for years about the details of WITSEC.

"Goodness; she'll be worn out when she gets back," his mother replied.

"Yes…" Marshall had to agree. "But Mary functions best when she's busy, even when she's on overdrive."

"Marshall, tell her to slow down a little," Carolyn was always one to offer friendly advice, especially when Mary was not around. "You don't want these years to go by in a whirlwind."

Marshall knew this to be true, knew as Sam munched on his pacifier that although the days and nights seemed endless right now, they were going to vanish before he or Mary could wrap their minds around it. Carolyn, the voice of experience, knew it to be so.

"I'll do what I can," he promised. "But it's not easy. Mary's got a mind of her own."

It was an intangible trait of Mary's that Marshall pretended to find aggravating, when instead it was something he adored. To avoid answering when he didn't have a good response, he stood to place Sam back in his crib. He was passing out quicker than Marshall had anticipated.

"That's not such a bad thing," Carolyn assured him.

She needn't have reminded Marshall of that, he thought. Reflecting, he laid his son back among the blankets and his new stuffed horse that daddy himself had picked up for his boy's proverbial first Christmas. It was rich, gravy brown and Sam seemed to love it.

"Night-night pal…" he crooned, leaning over the bars to kiss his boy. "Sorry mom…" he repeated for the second time, venturing back to the hall and shutting the door lightly. "I keep getting distracted…"

"It's no problem," she reinforced.

Marshall chose his own bedroom this time and rested inside the rumpled sheets to try and give Carolyn her time. He folded an arm behind his head and stretched out his legs, lounging comfortably.

"You're a natural, Marshall…" he heard her say, more to herself than to him.

"Hmm?" it was his turn to yawn. "A natural what?"

His mother chuckled softly, but chose not to answer his question and Marshall had realized even after he'd said it that it was obvious what she'd meant.

"I should let you sleep," Carolyn whispered dispiritedly. "I shouldn't have called so early…"

Marshall could tell she was about to hang up and forced himself to tune back in. If Mary could do it, so could he.

"No-no…" he tried to sit up. "Mom, wait…"

There was a pause as he blinked, willing himself to focus. His mother was not needy or overstepping or desperate. There had to be a good reason for her calling, a legitimate explanation. And then he reminded himself, valid or not, it didn't matter; she'd called and he had a responsibility to give her whatever she needed.

With a hard swallow, "It's dad, isn't it?"

He knew it was. It absolutely was.

"Marshall…" she opened at once with the leeway. "Honey, I just…" she was trying to keep it together. "I _forget_ sometimes. I forget he's not here."

It was so-so sad. Nothing else – just sad.

"And the worst part is, I know there's going to come a day when I _don't_ forget, as absurd as that sounds…"

"It does not sound absurd…" Marshall interjected, even if he wasn't sure what she really meant.

"I'll forget the way he tucked his shirt in before work," she assumed. "The way he…taught Claire to hold a baseball bat…" she continued. "The look on his face when he met his son for the first time."

She wasn't crying, but it couldn't have been worse. And yet, Marshall knew there were a thousand things he could offer in hopes that they would provide a little comfort. He was taken back to Mary – somehow, someway – managing to neglect for ten minutes that she had a child. And how impossible it was to truly leave that behind.

"Mom, there are some things you don't forget," he promised. "Your children, your grandchildren…" he hoped his words were enough. "The details might fade, and that's difficult, but nothing erases the place they hold in your heart."

Marshall had never been shy about sharing his feelings, and Carolyn knew this better than just about anyone.

"You hold onto that sweet little man of yours, Marshall," was her only response. "You can't _possibly_ imagine…" she sighed.

And then, "Just _how fast_ it goes."

**A/N: Lots of fluff, but it's important to see how these two became so close, right? 'Till 'My Way Home' Marshall was described as being Sam's go-to parent; he and Mary became more tied as a result of the accident, so this is Marshall getting his time in.**


	8. Chapter 8

**A/N: I hope nobody's sick of Sam and the gang – believe me, I worry about that! I worry if he's run his course, but my sweet and loyal band of reviewers keep me smiling. I hope this chapter does that for you!**

XXX

_Six Months, April:_

White was awfully…_bright_, Mary reflected as she stood in her bedroom examining the silky, satin feeling of her dress beneath her fingers, the way it swished and rustled over her skin. It was so white; in fact, it made all the other supposedly white-tinted objects around look dull.

Standing in front of her mirror – the mirror she hardly ever placed herself in view of for more than a few seconds – she still saw herself lingering underneath. Shouldn't she have glimpsed some sort of transformation taking place?

First, there was her hair. Jinx had waved it a little bit more than it usually did on its own. It cascaded over her shoulders and down her back, pinned twice on either side across the top with bobby pins. Mary had just wanted to wear it down, but her mother had insisted she dress it up even marginally. The twisting of the strands in the bobby pins were as far as she'd been willing to go.

Secondly, there was her makeup. She was actually wearing some, this time courtesy of Brandi. To her sister's credit though, she did not look like a hooker or a whore; her lids were not heavily penciled, her cheeks not smacked with rouge. Not a word she usually used to describe Brandi, but it was _tasteful_. Even if Mary didn't see much difference between this look and her normal one.

And then, of course, there was that dress. Snowy white and practically shining, blinding her with its hue. Despite Jinx's and Brandi's beliefs, she'd not taken it because it was the first one she'd found, but because it was the simplest. She'd insisted on straps, still convinced she needed to contain her boobs after having given birth to Sam six months before. And so she had them – a little off-the-shoulder and slippy – but they were there, just the same. The rest was plain enough; little glittery something's adorned the right side of her chest where the fabric hugged her and then spanned into a flowy skirt - not full, not wide, free of tripping over. She'd refused to wear a veil.

Regardless of the changes, however, Mary Shannon resided underneath. For some reason, this bothered her. She'd thought she'd see something unusual – something new. She cursed herself for hoping it, but something feminine, someone giddy and girly about getting married. Maybe something about the fact that she already felt married hampered it.

She could hear Sophie and Sarah arguing with Claire beyond the door. She could hear Carolyn shooing them outside where Jinx and Brandi had gone to town transforming the backyard into something appropriate for a wedding – lights and altars and more flowers than they knew what to do with.

It was perfect – more prefect than Mary ever envisioned her life being, and still there was something missing.

A sharp knock on the door shook her from her thoughts and she whirled from the mirror, suddenly wanting to hide her more womanly exterior from whoever lay waiting on the other side.

"Mare, can I come in?" it was Brandi.

Groping indistinctly at nothing in thin air, Mary nodded as she spun on the spot, attempting to somehow appear self-assured.

"Yeah…" she finally replied, hands fluttering nervously and casting her gaze away from the door as it opened.

Her sister practically flung herself in, dressed in strapless pale purple – her own choosing, as Mary's only bridesmaid. She was facing the entrance as she came in, so she didn't notice Mary at first and was busy with the squirmy little boy in her arms.

"Somebody wanted a kiss before we get this show on the road…!" Brandi declared as she shut the hatch and turned around.

Mary would not have been shocked if her sister had burst into tears. As it was, she actually welled-up and put a hand to her mouth at seeing Mary all decked out for the occasion.

"Oh my God Mary…" she breathed dramatically, completely the opposite of Sam who was fidgeting and squealing on her hip. Fortunately, it appeared they were squeals of delight.

Brandi walked over and reached out her hand to touch the dress, as though making sure Mary was real. The elder shifted away only slightly, feeling conspicuous at the display.

"You look beautiful!" Brandi burst.

"I do not…" Mary shook her head, trying to be modest.

"Yes you do; you look amazing!" Brandi reiterated.

"You're overcompensating," Mary pressed on.

Now Brandi laughed, shifting Sam higher onto her hip where he continued to jabber and swat at Brandi's dangling earrings. He clearly liked the way they sparkled when they caught the light because he kept snatching and coming up with nothing in his fingers.

Fortunately, Brandi let it go and moved on to something else.

"Sammy boy wanted to say hi before things get cracking…" Brandi moved to transfer the buoyant Sam into Mary's arms.

"Told you that, did he?" Mary mused, reaching to pull him close, her eye catching the tufts of hair he had sprouting on top. Mary continually tried to convince herself otherwise, but no matter the light, his locks were brown. Like Mark.

"You don't even take a day off for a wedding, do you?" Brandi joked at Mary's comment, but Mary was no longer listening.

Sam was in rare form. He radiated the oddest sense of thrill, as though he actually knew what was going on. He was much noisier than he usually was, fingers flashing and eyes bright with joy. Up close, he caught Mary's gaze and placed his tiny hands on her face, over her mouth which made her laugh and then patting her cheeks like a drum.

"Hi Smush…" she whispered, feeling a little better because he seemed so happy. "Where's the fire, bud?"

"He's been that way _all_ morning," Brandi reported. "Sammy's such a clever boy…" she crooned, leaning forward and rubbing her nose on his cheek. "He knows what's about to happen."

"Uh-huh…" Mary muttered disbelievingly.

"What's with you?" Brandi asked, sticking a hand on her hip and looking curious. "What, are you nervous?"

"No, I'm not nervous," Mary responded a little too quickly, still with that nagging feeling that something was missing. What could she have forgotten?

She snuggled Sam in next to her, hoping his excitement wouldn't prompt him to spit up while she was holding him. Disdain for the dress or not, she couldn't help feeling it would be a little tactless to commence in a garment laced with the scent of sour milk.

"You seen Marshall recently?" Mary couldn't resist asking, stooping to grab her bouquet from the bed so Sam could play with it.

"He'll tear that up," Brandi said warningly.

"I don't care," Mary shrugged, not having understood the need for her to carry one, especially when the petals were such a bright shade of purple.

"Mom will – she paid a fortunate for those things," Brandi reminded her just as Sam ripped off the first bud and promptly tried to eat it.

Brandi was looking annoyingly superior and the elder sister had to admit, whether she wanted the cloud or not, she definitely didn't want Sam snacking on it.

"Give it to me…" his mother murmured, poking her fingers into his mouth and pulling out the wet strands.

Brandi promptly dashed over to grab her a Kleenex so Mary wouldn't be tempted to wipe it on her dress. There, she snatched the bouquet from her son and tossed it back to the bed.

"Yeah, Marshall's hanging out with Claire," Brandi finally answered the question. "Calm and cool as ever."

This was no surprise to Mary, who had not spent the night away from her husband as was tradition, but they'd both been so busy for most of the day that she hadn't seen him in his tux yet. This reminded her of Sam's outfit, and she scrutinized it closely while she was still holding him.

Marshall had insisted their boy would look beyond adorable in his own tuxedo, but Mary had refused. Instead, she had him in khaki pants and a purple plaid button-up with a matching sweater vest. Brandi had supplied the purple to go with the rest of the wedding theme she and Jinx had cooked up.

"I still think he looks too preppy…" Mary muttered as she thought about this. "Tie a sweater around his neck and just watch Daniel and Quinn start wisecracking…"

"He looks _darling_!" Brandi gushed, not even bothering to listen, fingering the material on the vest. "He matches perfectly!"

Why did she think Mary would appreciate this?

"Don't you listen to mama Sammy," Brandi adjusted the sweater so it reached the proper spot on his pants. "You look very dashing. She's just in a bad mood because she had to dress like a girl."

"Charming, Squish," Mary groused.

Brandi giggled, clearly not going to be baited into her sister's usual method of deflecting apprehension. She was plainly lit up by the entire scenario and was attempting to beam some of it over to Mary with little success. Leaning in next to Sam's ear, fingers wiggling enticingly, she whispered to her nephew.

"Doesn't mama look gorgeous?" she hissed, crouched down beside him. "Mama's so pretty…" and she dug her fingers in Sam's sides, tickling him, and he squealed with delight, making him wiggle all over in Mary's arms.

"Such a happy boy!" Brandi sang girlishly, positively glowing at the little one. "Where do you suppose he got that, Mare?" she raised her eyebrows goofily, indicating it certainly hadn't been from his sullen mother.

"Very funny," but she smirked against her will watching Sam pat the bare part of her chest with his little fingers. He was awfully handsy; he could hardly contain himself.

"Holy God, look at the time!" Brandi burst unexpectedly, catching a glance of the clock over Mary's shoulder and bouncing up on the spot. "It's only twenty minutes till the ceremony starts!"

Twenty minutes? Mary's heart began to race, but fortunately Sam didn't seem to notice and yanked on her hair. She could've cared less if he pulled it loose, but Jinx would pitch a fit.

"I'm gonna make sure everyone's here…" Brandi declared without waiting for approval. "Almost show time!"

She wasn't even looking at Mary as she jabbered and sashayed to the door, her dress making a swishing sound as she walked. Mary was hoping for a minute or two alone before everything commenced and came rushing in, a second to remember what seemed to be out of place, but it appeared this was not to be. When Brandi flung the door open, it was to find Jinx and Carolyn down the hall in the living room, and neither one of them missed the sound of the hinges creaking.

Mary groaned in the split-second before Jinx made a mad dash, and then had to paste on a smile.

"Oh darling!" her mother tottered on six-inch heels over the hardwood in a gown of palest pink. It wouldn't have been so bad if not for all the ruffles and sequins.

"Mom…" Mary began; grateful she was holding Sam so she couldn't get too close. "I'm not a mannequin; don't adjust me, all right?" she swatted Jinx's hovering hands with her free one.

"What's to fix?" Jinx proclaimed, holding out her palms in display. "You look wonderful!"

Why couldn't Mary just take the compliments for what they were? As she was reflecting on this, Carolyn strode in – calmer, much more sedate, dressed in navy that so complimented the blue in her eyes. The sight of her put Mary at ease.

"You do look beautiful, honey," Carolyn admitted, leaning over as she arrived and pecking her cheek. "We'll have to watch Marshall; he may not be able to breathe when he sees you."

"No kidding," Brandi chuckled her hoarse laugh.

Mary barely heard her sister because she was concentrating on giving Carolyn a genuine, quiet smile – her own version of a thank-you for the praise.

"We should go sit down…" Jinx suggested among Mary's thoughts.

"I was just about to go over the guest list…" Brandi continued.

"All of Marshall's college buddies are here…" Carolyn chimed in.

There weren't very many, but at least it gave them a few more seats to fill.

"The cake's at the back of the buffet by the tent…"

"Keep an eye on Daniel; he will definitely try to sneak a piece…"

Mary had quit listening, resigned to letting them work out the details, trying to keep a cool head by fiddling with Sam's sweater, straightening the collar on his shirt, pondering whether he might need a jacket later if the April spring got to him when the sun went down.

Vaguely, she saw Jinx and Carolyn on their way now, Brandi at the rear still rattling off directions, placements, the whole shebang. Who knew the younger Shannon could take charge so swiftly?

It was when the two mothers had already disappeared that Mary finally tuned in to Brandi's voice once more.

"…So Marshall will walk out when Claire gets to the end and Mary will walk down…"

The speaking stopped. So did Mary's heart. Her eyes weren't with her sister's; they were resolutely fixed on the face of her little boy, doing his own fiddling with a loose thread on his shirt. She knew what had prompted Brandi's freeze frame.

Something was missing.

"Oh God…"

Mary slowly flicked her eyes upward; Brandi looked stricken – panicked.

"Mare…" she shook her head, like she was hardly daring to believe she could've forgotten something so important.

The bride-to-be waited it out.

"Who's going to walk you down the aisle?"

Mary hadn't forgotten. Not really. She'd known all along this was the piece that was missing. As soon as Brandi had spoken the words, it was as if she'd been aware the entire time. Part of her had. She'd let Jinx and Brandi do all the planning, dutifully keeping silent when they both managed to leave out the detail of who would give her away. How _they'd_ managed to neglect the issue in all their checking and double-checking was a mystery, but it had worked.

Until now.

Casually as possible, Mary shrugged, "Nobody."

She should've known Brandi would not accept this as she backtracked inside, "Mary, somebody has to give you away."

What a ridiculous phrase. The man who was supposed to give her away already had. He'd signed her off and shipped her out a long time ago.

Still, a stupid part of her had actually spun a silly fantasy about her father showing up while she floated on his arm. Stupid-stupid-stupid.

"Mary…I am so sorry," Brandi said sincerely even though the bride was completely still. "I can't believe I missed this…"

There had been no rehearsal for her to catch her. Mary and Marshall had been on the road so much in the days leading up to the wedding trying to tie up loose ends at work, they'd just tossed the dinner.

"Squish, I don't care," Mary shook her head, shifting Sam up. "I don't care. I don't need someone to walk me down the aisle. It's not important…"

"I'll fix this," Brandi decided at once, plainly not listening to a word. "I'll figure something out…"

Without waiting for Mary to agree, she reached out her hands to take Sam back to the setup outdoors, but Mary shook her head. She wasn't interested in letting him go.

"Leave him."

Brandi clearly didn't know why but took her own turn at shrugging, "Fine."

She was back at the door in an instant, still looking ashamed and also harassed. Her bridesmaid-slash-matron-of-honor duties were going to return in full-force. But she was determined.

"Wait here. I'll figure something out…" she repeated.

Mary decided to let her as she slammed the door on her way out.

Once she was gone, Mary put Sam on his belly onto the bed where he bounced up and down against the mattress like he was trying to crawl. She kept waiting for him to do it, even though he was a little young still (as Marshall constantly reminded her.) He seemed to want to, but all he usually succeeded in doing was rolling over and hitting his head a lot.

But now, as Mary sat in front of him and took one of his light-up toys from the bedside table, he just sat and sprung up and down, perfectly content with going nowhere.

"Here Smush…"

But he ignored the toy Mary placed in his line of vision, with its flashing colors and spinning blocks and just looked at her. He had such a smile – gaping and wide with just one tiny tooth coming in at the bottom. His blue eyes shined and twinkled with so much joy as he gazed happily at his mother. Could it really be because she looked different – like a girl? Did he notice something like that? He resembled a puppy wagging its tail.

Brandi was gone a little while, and Mary began to feel silly perched on her bed in that dress with just Sam to keep her company. It was also increasing her nerves and she wished she'd been more firm with her sister, telling her to just forget it. Who could walk her down the aisle that would fill the void left by the fact that her father was not here to send his little girl off on her own?

Snatching Sam off the bed, for he was becoming bored with his toy, she took him into the bathroom where the evidence of Jinx's hair-tooling still lay. Standing in front of the mirror, she waggled her fingers against the reflection, getting Sam's attention.

"Who is that?" she asked, turning from the mirror to the real thing. "Who's that boy?" she pointed.

Sam blinked furiously, like he couldn't quite believe his eyes, and reached out a hand to try and touch the glass. Mary tilted him forward so he could attempt, but then he pulled back and giggled softly, like he knew he was being tricked.

"Is that Sam?" she posed carefully. "Is that a handsome Sam?"

But Sam wasn't looking at himself anymore. His eyes had strayed to Mary's reflection and stared, enraptured, at the Mary in the mirror and then turned, gazing up into her face. He stuck out his index finger and pointed up at her. He had it all figured out.

"You're such a smarty pants," Mary told him, and she laid a kiss on his head.

And got caught.

The door outside the bathroom creaked and Mary slowly stepped back through into the bedroom, expecting to see Brandi with no news at all, that they'd have to do it Mary's way, that they'd just have to resign themselves to doing things in untraditional fashion.

But no. The face was one she'd never even considered.

"I understand you need an escort, inspector."

Why was she embarrassed? Why was she embarrassed as she saw this sweet-sweet man offering her his arm, dressed in black tie, fully willing to step into a role Mary had needed filled for many long years? Why couldn't she just accept it?

"Stan…" she murmured, suddenly feeling strangely conspicuous with Sam on her hip. "You don't have to do this…"

"I want to," he said softly, but putting his arm down and smiling a little less freely. "Someone's gotta."

Mary nodded, knowing he was right, knowing she probably _would've_ felt worse just gliding down on her own, contrary to what she'd told herself all this time. But it didn't erase the doubt. It didn't get rid of the ache. Nothing did. No matter how much she was given, how much she accomplished, nothing washed away the hurt that still resided deep inside, that still longed for her father to appear on her doorstep.

She'd let her eyes fall to the ground, but Stan's gentle pats on her arm made her look up again.

"Ah, kiddo…" he mused sympathetically. "I know you miss your dad. Don't beat yourself up."

"This isn't any different," she felt the need to share. "Today isn't any different from the ten thousand others he hasn't come back. Why the hell can't I let this go?" she almost spat.

Stan shrugged, clearly a little uncomfortable, and put his hands in his pockets.

"It's his loss Mary," he finally said in a low voice.

So sweet. Why didn't she let sweetness in more often? Why didn't she try it herself once in awhile?

"Come on…" Stan went on before Mary could respond. "It's just a little march down the aisle. Your mother's waiting to take Mini Marshal here before we step off…"

Clearly, they had this all worked out. Mary was considering, not wanting to become her usual surly and sullen self on this day of all days. For Marshall, if nobody else.

"We don't have to do the first dance shit…" Mary bargained.

"You sure?" Stan teased. "I could fall back on those Mambo lessons I gave Marshall."

Mary smiled a real smile then, and found that it was now or never. Stan clearly saw the shift as well and put out his forearm once more. Mary took pause, looking into his warm, sensitive features and knew there probably wasn't anyone else who really deserved to give her away. Someone who had put up with her and Marshall's antics for so many years – who was going to continue to do so – who scolded them and praised them and was there for them when they fell.

Slowly, carefully, Mary slipped her arm into his. Elegantly, he drew her out of the bedroom and down the hall. As promised, Jinx was waiting in the kitchen to take Sam. Beyond the back door, Mary could see the guests already seated. She could see Brandi and Griffin waiting to walk down together – Claire the single flower girl in a pleated purple dress.

"Say 'good luck mama,'" came Stan's voice from beside her as Jinx took Sam.

All Mary could do was lean over quickly and kiss his soft cheek.

And then she just waited. Some strange part of her felt like it took an eternity. A thousand things were whirling through her mind as Stan guided her further and further up the line behind her bridal party as it made its way down the aisle.

Was she really fit to be a married woman? Could she stand to be tied down forever?

Did she belong in a traditional family? Had she been fooling herself all this time?

The fears came in full force but she still managed to make her feet move.

What was she doing? Why was everyone standing up? It couldn't be time yet.

Stan tugged the crook of her arm, recalling her to the real world. She snapped to face him, looking wild-eyed she was sure, but he just smiled.

It was time.

"I forgot to tell you sweetheart…"

Sweetheart.

Smiling genially, "You look beautiful."

It was the third time she'd heard it today, but coming from Stan it was a little different. Deep down, he was like her in revealing his emotions on occasion. So for him to say it – it meant a little more because she knew it wasn't as easy for him to utter the word.

"Thank-you," she whispered, trying to smile back but without success.

The ache was still there. Maybe it would help if she laid out her own confession, even as they stood waiting to make the march of all marches.

"And thank-you for…"

She let her gaze float to their intertwined arms, becoming tight now. Mary swallowed, hoping Stan would get the message.

He smiled again, leaned up, and kissed her cheek.

"My pleasure, inspector."

The spring breeze was warm on her face as she turned to look at the crowd. With less of an enormous effort, she and Stan stepped off together.

With every stride, her heart became a little lighter. She could see Jinx bouncing Sam in the front row, who was pointing at his mother and chattering excitedly. She could see Carolyn near tears sitting beside Julian, who was grinning politely. And she could see Peter, looking appropriately mesmerized by Brandi rather than the bride.

And then her heart grew wings and more shapes and figures came into focus. Daniel and Quinn in their suits, Sophie and Sarah in matching dresses of bright pink complete with bows and sashes. Connie and Kim floated at the edges, looking taken in by the way the yard had been transformed. There were flowers everywhere, an altar erected, tables beyond piled high with food. It didn't even look like Mary's yard.

They were getting near it now. She could see Brandi practically jumping up and down with excitement, but doing her best to contain Claire who was swaying side-to-side in front of her as they waited for Mary to arrive. And there was Griffin on the other side. He was standing there talking – in the middle of the march – talking to…

And her heart took off and flew. James didn't matter. Neither did any of these people. Nobody mattered except this man who was waiting here for her. This man who always waited for her. No matter how far astray she ran, he always waited for her to come home.

Dimly, she felt Stan release her arm and she held out a palm so Marshall could pull her forward. As she did so, he leaned in.

"You are stunning."

It was the difference in the phrase she'd heard all day that made her realize she had nothing to worry about. Not you look beautiful, you look gorgeous, you look stunning – a mask, a cover, a shield that hides your true nature. But _you are_.

You _are_ stunning. Inside and out, not just today but every other. And beautiful and gorgeous she was not, no matter what they said; she just didn't believe it. But stunning spoke of an entirely new realm and if she'd asked, she was sure Marshall would've given her a definition.

She pulled him in and kissed him – square on the mouth in front of everybody before they'd even gotten started. She could hear Brandi laughing as she lost herself in him for a moment. When she pulled away, he was smiling.

"You know it's usually easier if you jump me _after_ the vows and all that," he told her. "It'll make more sense to all these people sitting here."

It was her turn to smile.

"When have I ever done things the easy way?"

**A/N: I know there wasn't much Marshall in this one, but I hope you enjoyed the wedding festivities! We needed a peek into a little part of that day!**


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: Thanks for reviewing! You should know, my patience is zero so when I whine and complain about not getting any it's because of that LOL! Not my most flattering trait.**

**This is a chapter that I sincerely hope fits in with the rest of the stories. I hope it is believable that the instance presented wasn't mentioned in future tales, and that you'll see why. (If that makes any sense at all!)**

XXX

_Ten Months, August:_

Mary had her head in the fridge examining the jug of milk to determine if it had gone bad. The expiration was that day, and she might've been willing to take her chances, but not with Sam. She unscrewed the cap and sniffed while Marshall shuffled through the mail behind the door.

"Bills…flyers…will the madness never end?" he sighed a little overdramatically.

"Woof…" Mary wrinkled her nose as she got a whiff of the milk, knowing that even she could not stand a sip of that. One of them would have to get to the store within the half hour or Sam would be screeching.

"Oh," Marshall's tone changed from tired to vaguely surprised as he held a yellowish envelope in hand, others discarded on the counter.

Mary was not paying attention in the least, Sam springing up and down in his bouncy seat in the living room a distant squeak as she tossed the jug into the sink; the nearest opening for its ungodly smell.

"Mare…" Marshall was addressing her now; she gleaned that much.

She wondered if Sam would accept juice without spitting it up. He enjoyed his milk, there was no doubt. She feared she would never wean him off his bottle, although Marshall claimed ten months was far too early to be worrying about it.

"He'll drink minute maid, won't he?" she snatched a second jug from the back of the fridge without responding.

"Mary," he was much more serious this time.

She decided it was time to chance a glance upward, and he had opened the envelope, holding its contents unfolded and creased in his long fingers.

"What?" she was already jiggling the flagon to ascertain how much was swishing around. "Bills don't come in that puke yellow," she gestured at the envelope.

Why did Marshall look that way? What sort of mail would he open that would prompt such a response in such an official-looking envelope? She couldn't imagine, but she also wasn't paying close enough attention; not expending her energy to recall correspondence they might be receiving.

"What is that?" she finally inquired, setting the apple juice on the counter and shutting the door.

Marshall sighed. Not good. Not good at all.

"Don't keep me waiting," she pressed, overly eager now that she'd recognized all the symptoms of his features. "What's in that telegram?"

He sighed another time, punctuated rather strangely with a strident squeal from Sam, rocketing positively sadistically in his seat in the living room. Mary chose to ignore him.

"It's from…Doctor Reese's office," Marshall eventually shared.

Panic.

"Sam?" she almost spoke over him.

The oddest, very near to pitying look came from Marshall before he responded.

"Not the pediatrician, Mare," he reviewed gently. "Doctor Reese is your OBGYN."

He actually said it the right way, without smashing all five letters together; trying to be clever. And as Mary processed the names, as she came to and really started tuning in, she recalled what this must be about. Marshall obviously thought she was still a bit dim and chose to help her out.

"You remember you…expressed interest in seeing how easy it would be for you to get pregnant after Sam," he reminded her, with much motioning of his hands. "We talked about maybe having another down the road and we were concerned – because of his delivery and your age…"

"Yeah…" she nodded, not having needed the prompt now; she'd figured it out right away as soon as he'd said 'OBGYN.'

"Anyway…" Marshall shook his head, seemingly shaking off everything he'd just said. "They sent the results from those tests you took."

Those tests. How tedious they'd been. At the time, when it was happening, Mary had wondered what had ever encouraged the idea of a second child to form. Ten months with Sam – barely as long as she'd been pregnant – and she was creating thoughts of another. In the deepest, lowest depths of her heart, she was still concerned Marshall could bail without a biological child and she'd wanted desperately to give him one. And she adored Sam; considering her aversion to the onset of the pregnancy it was a shock to even consider one let alone two, but things were different now.

And anyway – they didn't need to try to conceive right away. She'd just wanted some logistics, to see if it was even plausible. She liked to map things out.

"So what's the story?" she wanted to know. "What do they say?"

The longer Marshall stood there, the more she became aware of the fact that he would not look as he did unless something was wrong. The way his blue eyes had turned soft and understated in their twinkle; the way he contemplated just how to drop the bomb. She knew all the movements; she'd been around him long enough.

Sam shrieked again in a much more dispirited fashion this time, before Marshall said it.

"Mary…" he whispered. "You can't."

"Can't what?" she hadn't even really stopped to listen.

She saw him swallow; saw the bones jutting out in his neck. Sam was starting to whimper, starting to cry.

"You're not…" he was fighting just taking her in his arms. "You're not going to be able to have another baby," he stated very directly. "We aren't."

Mary wasn't sure she understood. She was hearing the words, and yet they didn't seem to make sense. How could this be? The one time she hadn't been careful, she'd gotten knocked up without a hitch. How could she have trouble all of a sudden?

"What do you mean?" she was the one shaking her head now. "What happened?"

Marshall obviously wasn't quite sure what to say – or rather, didn't seem to want to say anything. They hadn't officially _decided_ to have another child, especially considering Mary's original reluctance about the first. It had been a whim, just a test. Just in case. Knowing it wasn't going to happen hadn't ever factored in.

"Well, it turns out our concerns were…" Marshall shrugged. "Right."

Sam had ascended into a full-fledged wail, but both parents ignored him in favor of this imagined child that wasn't going to be.

"You're over forty and infertility increases significantly after age thirty-five," he explained. "You had quite a few problems with Sam and it seems it's taken its toll," he went on.

"So I'm…" Mary was having difficulty getting the words out over her son's sobs. "I'm…what?" she searched for the correct phrase and found it. "Infertile?"

"No…" Marshall argued, and he was the one who finally attended to Sam with a reassuring nod. "Shh…" he soothed. "Just a second, sheriff…"

Sam was not deterred and neither was Mary.

"What do you mean 'no?'"

"There's a string of things listed here – they're not ruling it out but…" the next part seemed hardest for him, and he swallowed again. "They seem to be advising against it, if anything. The risk it would put on you is too great."

Was this Marshall's deciding factor? If it was too dangerous for Mary, it was not to be? He was folding the sheet, putting it away, as though the discussion were finished. Mary couldn't decide if he was more disheartened for her or for himself.

Unfortunately, Sam's epic howls were making it almost impossible to even think, and it was a good distraction.

"I should get him…" she murmured.

Without waiting for Marshall to agree, she swept past him with that blank, sad look on his face and went to Sam in the living room. His face had turned beet red, tears streaming from his cheeks as he squirmed in the bouncy seat, trying to get out with nowhere to go.

"Come on Smush…" she whispered, hoisting him under his arms and into hers.

He was still fidgeting even out of that contraption, wiggling against her and not entirely comfortable.

"Hush bud…" she patted his back and then his butt, realizing his pants were damp. "He's wet…" she sighed, hardly able to mesh that every hour occurrence with the situation Marshall had just presented to her.

As it was, neither offered to change him. Mary shifted Sam onto her other hip and rubbed what little hair he had, hoping this would quiet him momentarily. Doubtful, since she'd been searching for a beverage for a reason.

"You're okay…" she decided against his pitiful hiccupping.

Was she? Knowing she'd never have this moment in time again, with some other nameless faceless child. She wasn't stupid enough to believe Marshall would go along with it now, not if it put her in danger. He wouldn't hear of it.

Now _she_ swallowed, copying her husband from across the room. Suddenly, Sam's restless agitation was a treasure to behold – something that would not come to pass ever again – just like the better moments when he giggled and tried to touch himself in the mirror and grab the flashes from the camera. Mary had never thought she could love someone the way she loved Sam. Let alone twice.

"Babe…" Marshall whispered as Sam finally tapered away.

And now Mary knew he was not at all concerned for himself. Why had she ever thought he'd be anything other than worried about _her_?

And yet she needed to save face. She didn't know where she'd gotten such an insane notion, just over nine months out of the gate. Right?

"Don't worry about it," she said briskly, trying to remember how to breathe. "We wanted an answer and we got it. It's no big deal. We never decided on anything, and our decision was just made for us."

Sam's calm didn't last and he was getting fussy again. Mary stooped to retrieve his pacifier from the coffee table, realizing how wet her arm was.

"Don't run away," Marshall implored, so quietly Mary almost didn't hear and she opted not to answer to that particular comment, regardless.

"I hated being pregnant," she worked in a very cruel sounding laugh, even hearing Sam's content sucking noises beside her ear. "I was two – three times the size of a normal person. I had contractions all through the last two months and I swear my back's never been the same…"

Even as she said it, she felt guilty. It was true, but still. But still.

"Who the hell needs another shot at those three A.M. feedings and that projectile barfing…?"

And even as she said it, she remembered the feel of a week-old Sam, warm and snuggled against her chest, burrowing and tunneling in her breast. His little mouth moving up and down, the way his eyelashes fluttered against his lids.

She had to remember to breathe again, and it was getting harder. It was quick and shallow; not at all steady. What kind of loss was this? How could she be this broken up over something she'd never had?

"It's done," was all she could manage, gripping harder than was necessary against Sam's shirt as she saw Marshall approaching her. "It's done…"

Over. Finished. No more. Never again.

"I don't…"

Marshall was right in front of her now, reaching out to grip her shoulder. He squeezed ever-so-lightly, looking down into her green eyes with his blue ones. Sam seemed comforted by having him so close.

"I don't need…"

Marshall didn't hug her, as she'd been expecting. He rubbed her back, gentle and in small circles. As he'd done when she'd been pregnant; those first few months they'd been together, the last few before Sam had arrived.

And like it or not, having gotten pregnant had changed Mary in ways she'd never predicted. It had been uncomfortable and unsightly; it had hurt, but it had been an accomplishment in so many fashions. She was proud of having carried Sam, of having fought through it, of having been able to give Marshall a son in one way or another. She'd been proud of having done for another, of being able to love someone she'd never anticipated caring about at all. She missed that feeling. Would she feel it again?

Marshall's touch eventually caused him to speak.

"I'm sorry babe," he was very even, not at all pitying. "I didn't think it would turn out this way."

"Me neither," she managed quietly.

"But he's still young…" her husband pressed, still rubbing. "We've got a lot of years ahead; we're lucky to have gotten him," he kissed her cheek, and then repeated the gesture with Sam, who whimpered softly; half content, half prickly.

Had _they_ gotten him? Could Mary say what she was actually thinking and have Marshall understand?

"I wanted to…"

She suddenly felt reckless for having begun the sentence. It was so dumb; it spoke of Marshall like he was some freelance womanizer. She couldn't have him thinking that.

"I wanted to give you a baby…"

And yet the words just wouldn't stop. Neither could the tightness in her throat at seeing Marshall look so painfully touched.

"And now I can't."

He was so quick to dissuade her; he almost looked to be in tears himself at not having known what had brought this turn of events on.

"Mary…" he soothed, so gently it was heartbreaking and he put his arm around her, nudging their temples together as Sam squirmed. "You _did_. You know that. This doesn't change how I feel about him or how I feel about you."

She'd known that, but it did help to hear it. The reassurance eased her sometimes, even when she was sure it wouldn't.

And even so, she couldn't help wanting to repeat his words; of wanting him to see that she'd tried to do this for him, whether he needed it or not.

"I'm sorry," she whispered meekly. "I'm really sorry…"

"For what?" Marshall was quick to scoff and he even stepped away from her, giving her his best skeptical stare, like he couldn't believe what he was hearing.

Mary shrugged, "For being a dried up old prune?"

Marshall might've laughed if he hadn't known how serious she was. She was clutching soggy Sam too tightly for it not to be. Those old feelings of wanting him near at all times; to protect him and keep him close were returning in full-force.

"It's not your fault, Mare," he assured her. "It doesn't have anything to do with fault. Your body just doesn't react well, having tried to carry a first pregnancy at such a late age. It's really not something you can control."

Even as rational as he was being, Marshall knew it was that lack-of-control that would bother her most. She hated feeling like she was out of an element, out of the way to help herself or somebody else. She needed to be the one calling the shots.

"I don't know what I was thinking," she responded upon hearing this, hitching Sam up one more time on her hip. He seemed to have forgotten his damp bottom and was happily chewing his pacifier now. "I didn't even know if I _wanted_…" she shook her head, unsure where this was headed. "I just…"

"You just wanted to see," Marshall finished for her, not finding anything wrong with it. "You fell hard and you fell fast," now he stroked Sam's head in his palm to reinforce his point, to make his wife see that loving too much, even impulsively, wasn't a bad thing. "There's nothing ridiculous about wanting that rush again."

Mary switched to nodding, but opening herself up to all the reasons she had acted on what she still considered an outlandish conception had made her feel worse, not better. She was mourning something that had never existed. There'd never been another 'Sam' in her life again.

Marshall obviously saw her features shift from defensive to saddened; saw her kiss Sam's head and rub his little belly. He knew she was fighting not to cry and for once, he really didn't want her to succumb. Tears would just upset her more.

"You know Mary…" he adopted more of an optimistic tone as he transferred into fix-it-mode. "I know you may not want to beat this to death because we didn't even tell anyone we ran those tests, but my brother Griffin…"

Unfortunately, the rest of the phrase was chased out of him by a rapping knock on the door. They both turned and Sam started, cooing beneath his pacifier and pointing his head in the direction of the sound. Mary sighed, the release making her tremble a little bit when she had been struggling to keep herself together.

"I'll grab it," Marshall offered, smart enough to leave her while she washed those feelings of self-pity aside.

He strode to the door and undid the deadbolt to find Peter and a very bouncy Brandi on the other side. Even across the room, Mary could tell she was barely self-contained. The goofiest grin was plastered on her face, although Mary did not find this unprecedented. Since she'd married Peter ten months before, she always looked like that.

"Hi Marshall!" she greeted her brother-in-law at an unnatural decibel and pranced inside without being invited.

"Afternoon, you two," Marshall was cool, masking his feelings quite easily. "What brings you by?"

Neither Peter nor Brandi answered and Mary sniffled once or twice to ensure she was not going to give anything away. Brandi clearly didn't need a response and waltzed on the heels of her feet right to Mary – or more accurately, her nephew.

"Hiiiiiiii Sammy boy!" she crooned, sticking her nose just inches from his face and he grinned shyly beneath his pacifier, babbling about something Mary couldn't catch. "How's my handsome man?"

And she stuck out her arms as she always did; indicating that Mary should pass him off, but the older sister had other ideas. Without even thinking, she swung her son back like a shield; keeping him from Brandi. She reacted way too fast and Brandi definitely picked up on it, so Mary hurried to fabricate an excuse.

"He's wet," she revealed flatly. "Needs to be changed."

"Oh," Brandi shrugged. "I'll do it," her arms were still poised, ready to grab.

Although Sam certainly _was_ sodden – and getting more so with each passing minute – that was not why Mary didn't want to hand him over. He was hers – he was the only one she had – and she needed him right now.

"It's all right Brandi; I'll take care of it," Marshall offered, knowing he was the only one Mary would accept tending to their son at this moment. "Come on sheriff…"

He made his way back to his wife and Mary, as instructed, handed the little boy to his father who toted him back to the bedroom. Mary's arms felt strangely empty in the absence of Sam and she wasn't sure what to do with her hands. She knew she looked awkward and it was Peter, this time, who noticed.

"You okay?" he asked, marginally concerned.

"Yeah, fine," Mary was always quick to deflect questions. "You didn't tell us what brings you by," she reminded them.

Brandi and Peter exchanged a very significant look; Brandi was beaming so brightly she might be blinding them. Peter stuffed his hands in his pockets and appeared sheepish but no less pleased. Mary scanned their faces, somewhat annoyed with the evasive attitudes.

"We have _news_," Brandi practically burst, hands clasped in front of her as though in prayer.

"What kind of news?" Mary couldn't resist prodding.

Brandi was clearly going to open her mouth again, but Peter attempted to tone her down.

"We should wait for Marshall."

Mary shrugged, not quite sure how to word an objection to this and wait they did; Brandi nearly coming out of her flip flops in her obvious urge to spill the beans. Mary knew she should probably suggest they sit down, but the couch was strewn with Sam's toys and she didn't imagine, after smelling that milk, that refreshments were in order.

Marshall eventually returned to the scene, Sam in a new pair of pants since he'd leaked through the first. He seemed much happier and was gesturing up and down, flexing his little fingers. Marshall kindly pretended he was reaching for Mary and handed him back to his mother.

"So what's up?" the man inquired, recognizing the looks on their faces as more than just a social call.

"Evidently they have news," Mary muttered, not even really caring what it was now; Sam was soft and smelled good. He was chattering sweetly beside her ear, babbling incoherently and pointing at Brandi.

"What's your news?" Marshall pressed just as Mary had.

Brandi and Peter swapped a second look, Brandi biting her lip in anticipation. Peter nodded, indicating it was okay for his wife to let it loose.

The oddest, most bizarre sensation struck Mary then. It was like she knew what they were going to say before they said it – like the words that came from Brandi's mouth were somehow pre-planned, like Mary had suddenly turned psychic or overly intuitive. It wasn't shock she felt when her sister finally spoke – it was acceptance.

"I'm _pregnant_!"

Brandi's laugh was long and loud as Peter joined in and Brandi's cheeks reddened with the admission. Marshall was much quicker than Mary and started chuckling quite believably. Mary wasn't sure how she looked, what emotion she was projecting but the kindness etched in her husband's face relaxed her. He was so sincere; their loss did not outweigh Brandi's and Peter's gain.

"That's fantastic!" he declared.

Marshall loved babies.

"Congratulations," he added, reaching out to shake Peter's hand; he even kissed Brandi's pink cheek.

"Thank-you," the happy couple said nearly simultaneously.

"When are you due?" Marshall blundered on, clearly trying to keep the focus off mute Mary, but there was little deterring Brandi, who so wanted her sister's approval.

"The second week of May," Brandi declared at once.

"So that makes you…?" Marshall was quick at the math. "What? Only a couple weeks, right?"

"Just the beginning," Peter agreed. "Still taking it slow; we didn't want to start broadcasting until we were through the rough patches but Brandi here couldn't wait to tell…"

His voice trailed away because he'd been about say, 'Couldn't wait to tell Mary.' And Mary herself was not reacting; Marshall was doing all the talking.

There was a strange feeling floating in her stomach. It wasn't grief or unexplainable sorrow as she'd expected after getting the news they had. It was actually _happiness_. Pure happiness; so polished it almost hurt. She'd never really known if she wanted another child but here was Brandi – ready to have her own. She thought of how Brandi adored Sam. Was it possible Mary could feel the same way about her niece or nephew?

She didn't know, but something deep inside wanted to find out.

"Mary?" Brandi prompted, and her smile had faltered just a little, hoping so heartily for big sister's wisdom. She never knew what to expect, what sort of sarcasm that hid her true thoughts was going to come out.

Mary thought of Marshall and his ability to spread compassion, although she couldn't look at him right now because she knew she might cry. So she swallowed and prepared herself for the first bout of sentimental best wishes she was going to utter aloud – free of smart remarks.

"Squish…" she made herself put Sam on the floor on his hands and knees and then got on with the rest, "I'm…" she had to pause once, but she made it. "I'm _really_ happy for you."

Brandi was nothing short of dumbfounded, even more so when Mary put her arms around her and she had to stutter into the embrace it was so unexpected. But it was real for Mary – real when she felt the short, coarse strands of her sister's hair, the way she shuddered just a little because she was so moved. To Mary, she felt just the same as she did as a little girl when the older sister had dried her tears and sheltered her from the darkness. The first person she'd ever mothered was Brandi.

"That's great," Mary persisted her efforts, even giving Brandi's back a quick stroke as she held her. "You'll be a good mom."

Okay, she'd gone too far. She didn't have a clue where that last statement had come from, and it made Brandi start crying, which agitated Sam beneath them. Marshall lifted him up again as Brandi got some words out.

"Oh…Mary…" she managed thickly, obviously not having expected support such as this. "That's really nice."

Mary let her go then so she could wipe her eyes, the old feelings of awkwardness at emotions on the line returning, along with all the touching. She'd been snatched – snatched under thoughts of a second child taken and then replaced ten minutes later. She'd do well to remember Brandi's kid wasn't going to be her own, but it was the closest she was going to get.

And that felt…_good_.

"Just remember to share, Squish," Mary worked some of these thoughts in as best she could. "Smush here needs a playmate."

"Count on it," Peter was the one who responded, stroking Brandi's shoulder while she got herself under control and sniffled. "Marshall will get to put his 'world's greatest uncle' status to the test."

"Honored," Marshall gave a mock bow, difficult with Sam in his arms. "Why don't you guys head into the kitchen? We can have some snacks to celebrate."

"Sure," Brandi and Peter spoke at the same time again and did as told, leaving Mary and Marshall by themselves in the living room.

Mary fully expected Marshall to ask if she was all right, if she needed a minute, even plead with her to stay cool. But the words spoken in an undertone were entirely different, and they lifted her up – high as the sky.

"I am _so_ proud of you."

She offered him a small smile, but had nothing to say. She wanted Sam back.

"That was a _really_ selfless thing you just did," he reminded her, softer still.

"I meant what I said," she shrugged, kind of hating herself for admitting it.

"I know you did," Marshall was completely honest. "We can talk some more later if you want."

Mary shook her head, "It's okay…"

She meant that too, and couldn't stop herself from holding out her hands, of pulling Sam from his father's grasp and snuggling him close. He sighed softly as he savored the sanctuary of the cuddle.

She thought of Brandi and that unborn little one, and she meant it more than ever.

"Looks like we're getting another Sam after all."

**A/N: This shot was used to show one of several things, all of which I hope I got across fairly well. First – why Mary is so close to Jesse, why she felt a connection to him from the beginning. They've always had their own rhythm and I like to think it's because he filled the void so quickly when she learned she wasn't going to 'officially' have a child with Marshall. Also, it has its negatives in that it also cemented the idea that they were getting 'another Sam' which followed Jesse around for the rest of his life. Not something anybody intended to be negative, mind you, but just the same. I like to think Mary wouldn't mention her desire for another child beyond this point due to Brandi, and why she never found out about Griffin (if you remember his tale from 'My Way Home.') **


	10. Chapter 10

**A/N: So, this chapter is almost obscenely long, and I say obscenely because I worry it is too extensive, especially for its plotline and the fact that I worry it will not promote as much interest. There's not near as much Marshall, it is a 'tale of two sisters' if you will. It's length comes from the fact that I needed some time progression for it to be realistic, so take that with a grain of salt and hope you enjoy it.**

XXX

_Fifteen Months, January:_

"Don't you hate how gloomy it gets after Christmas?" Brandi voiced randomly from her spot perched on Mary's couch.

"I don't know…" Mary was appropriately snide as she worked on her laptop in the chair opposite. "Weather's weather. It's always all drab and dowdy and dreary in January."

Brandi laughed at the combination of words, "Say that three times fast."

Mary made no effort and mostly ignored her sister, hoping to keep things quiet for another hour or so while Sam took his nap. Brandi had been enlisted to watch her little man for the afternoon when Mary headed to work, but she'd shown up early, Mary suspected out of boredom.

"Mare?" the younger posed through the silence.

"Hmm?"

"When did Sam start kicking?"

Although Brandi was just over five months pregnant, she wore the title like a badge of honor, constantly referring to Mary for advice as though Mary had paid any attention to her own condition when she'd 'been there.' As it was, she looked up with predicable irritation at being asked.

"I'm supposed to remember?" she snarked.

"Well, I just _wondered_," Brandi sighed dramatically. "I think it's moving around, but I don't know if it's actually kicking and shouldn't he – she whatever – be doing that already?"

"I don't know," Mary shrugged, repeating herself from earlier and trying to get back to her work. "Ask your OB."

"I did," Brandi insisted, becoming more interested the longer she nagged. "She said everything's fine, but…"

"Well, then why are you worried?" Mary interrupted in hopes of shutting her up. "Honestly Squish; I'm trying to get this shit done," she gestured emphatically at the computer, her eyes wide.

Brandi rolled her own eyes and huffed, drumming her fingers absently on her barely rounded belly. Mary thought it was disgusting how little weight she'd gained. She'd already been close to hippopotamus status at twenty weeks, and here Brandi was hardly protruding at all. Sickening.

Brandi was able to remain silent for about two minutes before she started jabbering again.

"Do you have anything to eat?"

Mary sighed loudly, thinking this might get the message across.

"Besides Popsicles and applesauce?" the elder sister wanted to know.

Sam was cutting some of his last few teeth, and had been sensitive to anything he had to chew as of late. It was nowhere near as bad as those few months when he'd gotten most of them at once, but he'd turned whiny and fussy now that a few of those old symptoms had cropped up again.

"I'm hungry!" Brandi protested. "God! You'd think when I come to your house and offer to watch your kid you might offer a few more…!"

"Fine!" Mary snapped before she could finish, shutting the lid of her laptop. "If it'll shut you up, then fine! I need to get this done before I go in; Stan needs it for this afternoon."

She slid the computer onto the coffee table while Brandi sat there waiting to be pampered, taking full advantage of her current state. Mary went to the kitchen and stuck her head in the fridge; she didn't expect to find much, but it appeared Marshall had made a trip to the store. There were two mini trays of fruit, like the kind you'd buy for some sort of party.

Not wanting to waste her energy looking for something else and deciding she'd replace it later, Mary snatched one and ripped the plastic off.

"I have fruit," she made it sound like it was the only option as she strode back to the living room. "Eat this…" she thrust the bin at Brandi. "The fiber's supposed to be good for you or some such shit like that…"

It was the second time she'd cursed in about five minutes. She internally tried to remind herself not to do as such when Sam arose from his nap; she'd been trying in hopes that he'd talk more with little success.

"Aren't I lucky to have you looking out for me?" Brandi teased, examining her options which included sliced cantaloupe, kiwi, watermelon, and what looked like honeydew.

Mary dropped back into her chair and grabbed some paperwork from the floor to finish, rather than use the computer. Her eyes were getting tired from having stared at the screen so long.

"What's the fuzzy stuff?" Brandi asked, perusing a piece with her long nails.

"It's kiwi," Mary offered condescendingly, pencil scratching.

"Hmm…" Brandi mused, popping a slice in her mouth. "It's good…"

"Fabulous," Mary muttered with her usual sarcasm.

Blissfully, her sister opted for silence after that while she devoured the rest of the kiwi, as well as most of the other fruits on the tray. Mary really couldn't fault her; she remembered the way she ate when she'd been pregnant with Sam. Hell, the way she ate these days could give Brandi a run for her money.

After about fifteen minutes, Mary's phone rang and although she wasn't entirely done with her work, she was going to have to leave soon and Brandi had polished off the fruit tray, her cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk's.

Mary tossed her paperwork onto her laptop and answered her Blackberry.

"This is Mary."

"Hey, babe…"

No mistaking – definitely Marshall.

"Hey," she replied, tucking her falling hair behind her ears and standing to go back to the kitchen. "What's up?"

"You're coming in-in an hour, aren't you?" he asked while Mary perused the cabinets for a snack to take to the office if she didn't get a chance to grab dinner later.

"Forty-five minutes, give or take," his wife reported. "Why?"

"I've gotta drive out and check on a witness," he stated. "Nothing earth-shattering, but I wanted to make sure you'd be in-in case anything else comes up. Stan had to go down to ABQ PD and confer on something…"

"Delia there?" Mary asked as she clamped the phone to her shoulder and pulled down a couple bags of Goldfish crackers that would have to do.

"For now," Marshall told her. "She may have to head out too."

"So, basically it doesn't matter if I can come in or not," his wife jeered, opening her tote which was sitting on the counter and shoving the crackers inside. "You're giving me an order?"

"Well, I am not acting chief," Marshall mused. "I was merely calling to stress the urgency of the situation in hopes that you would find it convenient to come in not exactly at your leisure."

Mary rolled her eyes at the way he was showing off. He was the only person she had trouble saying 'no' to – although not a ton of trouble, because he usually just took her antagonism for teasing.

"Why didn't Stan send you to the police department?" Mary wanted to know, since he _was_ acting chief and could delegate.

"I don't know…" Marshall sighed, and Mary could tell even through the phone that he'd become evasive.

"You don't?"

"Well…" her husband hedged a little bit and then went on. "I think he had to finagle a few things with…"

Mary was becoming impatient, and fortunately Marshall knew her well enough to realize.

"With Abigail."

Abigail. There was a name Mary hadn't heard in awhile. She'd pretty much become taboo after Seth had died. Mary had never asked, but she was pretty sure Marshall had used his father's passing as an excuse to break things off. He hadn't wanted to blame Mary for their parting ways, but that had absolutely been it. Even though it had been about a year and a half, Mary didn't know how Abigail had taken it.

"Anyway," Marshall offered to fill the silence. "I think he thought it would be awkward for me."

"It's been forever…" Mary tried to sound casual, although she thought Stan was probably right. "You're adults; you can handle it."

"Well, it's water under the bridge at this point," Marshall slid in swiftly to get off the topic of discussion. "Stan's there and I'm here, and soon you'll be here so I can be…" Mary imagined him spreading his arms wide. "Out there."

"You're so poetic, doofus," she quipped.

Marshall chuckled appreciatively as Mary pulled her head out of the fridge a second time digging for a can of soda.

"By the way…" she remembered to ask after seeing the contents. "What are these fruit trays in the fridge for?"

"Delia's birthday's coming up; I thought we could do a little something," he told her.

Mary decided she might as well fess up while she had the chance; she wasn't sure when she'd see him again over the next evening.

"Well, Brandi was whining about being hungry so I gave her one," she admitted in an undertone. "I'll pick up another on my way home if you want."

Marshall just laughed again, and Mary had the suspicion he believed _she_ was the fruit thief, but he could think what he wanted. Her eye had just caught the clock on the microwave, and she knew it was time to rouse Sam if she wanted him to sleep well for Brandi on the off-chance her or Marshall arrived home late.

"I gotta go," she told him. "Be in soon."

"All right," Marshall agreed. "Bye."

Mary hung up and rushed to get her tote shut so the bags of crackers wouldn't slip out, and shoved in the soda at the last minute when she realized why her hand was getting cold. She dumped her phone on top and was just jogging through the living room to grab Sam when she noticed Brandi.

She wasn't sure how long she'd been talking to Marshall, but in the span of time Brandi was looking a little worse for wear. She brushed her bangs out of her eyes and sighed, shaking her head as though to ward off whatever she was feeling.

"Mare, how long have you had that fruit?" she asked, placing blame at once.

"Brandi, I didn't give you rotten fruit," Mary was exasperated, and stopped being concerned. "You can't eat like you're some kind of vacuum cleaner," she fabricated wildly. "Slow down next time. That fruit's all acidic; it's probably just messing with your intestines."

"That paints a nice picture," Brandi groused, still shoving her bangs out of the way. "But you're right; I probably shouldn't have eaten so much," she decided. "It's making me feel funny."

"You'll be fine," Mary decided vaguely, which really meant she would have to be fine because Mary needed her to baby-sit. "I'm gonna get Sam up and then I need to go."

Brandi nodded in a would-be-convincing way, "Okay."

Mary didn't stick around for more approval and immediately continued her journey to Sam's bedroom, lights out; dark and cozy, even more so with the grayness outdoors that Brandi had pointed out. Mary tiptoed to his crib and found him sprawled on his back inside a single blanket, clutching his favorite brown horse. He was already awake, but very bleary-eyed and fed his mother the tiniest of smiles when he saw her approach.

"Hey Smush…" she whispered, reaching into the confines to pull his covers aside. "How you doing, bud?" she rubbed his belly to stimulate him a little, but he shifted away and started chewing on his fingers, confirming Mary's beliefs about his last few teeth.

"Come on sheriff…" she forced him around and lifted him up with her big hands, her long fingers.

She loved the way he felt after a good nap; so soft and so-so warm, like a little furnace. His hair was a sight; matted and tousled all over his head, and she'd put him in just a T-shirt and his diaper when he'd gone down. Despite the gloominess of the outdoors, it was very mild and she hadn't wanted him too warm under the blankets.

"You and Brandi the Blimp are gonna hang out for awhile," she told him while he nudged his head into hers, maybe trying to capture another second or two of sleep.

Before she could go on, thinking she'd have to come up with a better nickname for pregnant Brandi if she stayed at such a minuscule stature, Sam murmured from beside her.

"Wandi."

"Brandi," Mary corrected gently, rubbing his back and then laying him flat onto the changing table. "I guess we'll do this job for her since she's all maxed out on excess produce or something…" she mused disdainfully, pulling his diaper off while she teased.

Sam just sat there and watched with that ornery grin of his, eyes still blurry from sleep.

"Wandi," he gurgled.

"Yes," Mary sighed. "Brandi."

He loved Brandi. He adored Brandi actually, and her name was one of the few he actually spoke aloud. He'd said mama – on more than one occasion, she constantly reminded herself – but da-da and Wandi and of course the fated Jing-Jing often took precedence.

"Let me get you some pants, Sam…" she advised herself as she tossed the old diaper now that the new one was on and fumbled in the dresser for a pair.

She slipped him into navy sweats to go with his ridiculous, 'I Scream' shirt. It had a picture of a cone with a scoop underneath it. Mary had specifically put it on him because he was napping, but now she couldn't be bothered to take it off, too anxious about getting to work.

"Up we go…" she swung Sam into a standing position and then into her arms, carting him to the door. "Be a little heathen while I'm gone," she said seriously as she slipped through the crack.

Once they were in the hall and Sam caught sight of his aunt, he completely perked up and pointed delightedly at her figure.

"Wandi!"

But for probably the first time in her life, Brandi did not return her nephew's enthusiastic call. Mary noticed at once that things had shifted. She couldn't have been in the bedroom more than five minutes, but Brandi had broken out in a cold sweat and her cheeks were flushed. She was mopping her brow and visibly trying to stay cool, but Mary was bewildered. What had happened, and in such a short space of time?

"Ugh…" her sister articulated bluntly, shutting her eyes and keeping a distressed hand to her forehead. "Mary…"

She looked up, and the older Shannon immediately recognized the fear in her huge blue eyes. She put Sam down, tossing him his horse, and walked over.

"I really think something's wrong…" Brandi managed, obviously trying not to cry.

"What do you mean?" Mary was almost pompously disbelieving in an attempt to stay cool. "You ate a basket of fruit…"

"Mary, I'm serious," Brandi definitely was, closing her eyes again and breathing slowly through her nose. "My stomach hurts and I'm all…"

But at that moment, in a last-ditch hope to prove Brandi wrong, Mary slapped a hand to her sister's forehead in the presence of the sweat and flushed skin. Her heart gave a nasty throb as she realized she was burning up. Mary turned her palm back to front as though this would make any difference, even as dumb as it was.

"Jesus…" she said predictably. "Squish, what the hell?"

As if this would help.

"Do I have a fever?" she was getting anxious.

"_Do_ you?" Mary was chill. "You could fry an egg on that thing."

Time to stop the jokes. Most definitely, because Brandi exploded.

"Mary, this isn't funny!" she burst, and the tears flooded like someone had turned a switch.

"Okay-okay…"

"I can't have a fever!" she rambled on. "I can't! What about the baby? Something could happen to him!"

"All right, all right…" Mary was fully intending to spring into action, but she was totally bewildered and wanted to get Brandi calmed down. "Brandi, this is insane. How could you spike a fever in fifteen minutes from a bin of fresh fruit?"

Mary picked up the plastic container off the table and gave it a sniff, just to confirm it hadn't been expired or gone bad but it seemed fine. How could it not be? Unfortunately, there were no slices left to investigate because Brandi had eaten them all. That made no sense either. If she'd been hurtling toward getting sick, why would she have wanted to devour the whole lot?

Unfortunately, she was making it impossible for Mary to think because she was bawling. Sam had toddled up to the couch to see what was going on, peering over the edge at his crying aunt.

"Wandi…" he bleated. "Wandi-Wandi…"

Beneath her confusion, Brandi managed to lean down and pick him up to sit beside her. She kissed his hair, dampening it with her tears, obviously in the hopes that it would make her feel better.

"This does not make any sense…" Mary said, more to herself than to Brandi.

Meanwhile, Sam was showing off his horse for about the billionth time, wanting Brandi to take an interest.

"He's a nice horsie…" she managed even though she was a little preoccupied.

Sam nodded, but said nothing.

"He's so fuzzy…" she continued.

Fuzzy. Fuzzy.

Click.

"Brandi…" Mary turned and the younger glanced up at her with watery orbs, looking more ill by the second. "Have you ever eaten kiwi before?"

Brandi swallowed, and it looked like it cost her an effort, alarming Mary a little further. More so when she shook her head.

"I don't think so…"

Mary was getting an idea, but she couldn't be sure.

"I wonder if you had an allergic reaction," she suggested. "I don't know what else it could be."

This, most unfortunately, did nothing to ease Brandi's mind. If anything, it made her worse.

"_What_?" she shouted hoarsely, knocking her hand into Sam when she gestured; he batted his eyes and crawled up, trying to yank her arm. "What's an allergic reaction going to do? I could've just killed my child!"

"Brandi!" Mary snapped, not going to let this escalate into her sister's usual theatrics. "You're not that hot," she insisted. "It's probably low-grade; they'll give you a shot of something and you'll be fine…"

"I'm not fine at all!" the younger completely ignored Mary's rationality and continued to fly into a tizzy. "I don't know what to do! How will I know what to do?"

"Squish, let's go…" Mary motored into action, snatching Sam from the couch. "I'll take you in."

She didn't know what made her offer, what made her decide she needed to be along for the ride. But as far as she knew, Peter was at work and so was everyone else. She'd have to call Marshall and tell him to hold down the fort at the office. Brandi was in no condition to drive all worked up.

Her sister calmed just slightly as she stood up, grateful to be taken care of but not entirely reassured.

"Where are you going to take me?" she gulped, like she was heading to the gallows.

Mary fought not to huff at this while she worked Sam into a jacket; he was squirming all over in the excitement. She debated for a moment on how casual to be, knowing her answer wasn't going to be something Brandi wanted to hear.

She shrugged, zipping Sam up, "To the hospital."

Another cascade of tears at this – just as Mary had anticipated. Her sister really was a drama queen sometimes, and she'd never quite grown out of her juvenility. She'd always seemed so much more than six years younger than Mary; it was still hard to believe she was going to be a mother.

"I'm so stupid…" she sobbed, fumbling her way to the door. "I always screw everything up…"

This was quite a dramatic take and Sam obviously thought so too; fortunately, he didn't seem bothered by the tears but merely curious. He was staring at Brandi with a large degree of interest as his mother finally decided a little bit of compassion was in order.

"Brandi…" she murmured calmly when her sister made it over to the threshold.

She stopped and looked up at Mary, wiping her eyes and sniffling. She was still warm, Mary could tell, and not feeling good either, even without all the emotion.

"Let me look at you…" Mary flexed her fingers against Brandi's throat, feeling to see if her glands were enlarged.

Her medical training was pretty minimal but she had vague recollections of knowing that in many allergic reactions – if that was indeed what this was – the throat or tongue swelled, which was the last thing they needed. Fortunately, Brandi's seemed to be of normal size.

"Okay Squish; you're not swollen which means your throat isn't closing up…" she hoped this would prompt relief. "That's a good thing," she added for good measure. "You said your stomach hurts; do you think you're gonna throw up?"

Mary opened the door as she said this, setting them out into the grey afternoon air, Sam's hair lifted by a light breeze. Mary was pleased to see Brandi shake her head.

"I don't think so…" she admitted. "But it's all cramped up…"

"Okay," Mary nodded, businesslike. "They'll figure you out at the hospital; we'll give Peter a call and I'll get Marshall to let him know I'm not coming in."

She opened the passenger door for her sister before she strapped Sam in the backseat, but apparently Brandi had more to voice.

"Mary, they make you wait _forever_ at the hospital…" she moaned, one hand on the rearview mirror. "You'll never get to work if you wait with me…"

Strictly speaking, Mary hadn't said she _would_ wait with Brandi but the younger one must've thought it was implied with the escort and the phone calls.

"Squish, I've got a badge," she waved this aside as of little importance. "And you're pregnant with a fever. If that doesn't expedite you, nothing will."

It was with this statement that the three of them finally loaded into the car and sped toward Mesa Regional, Mary shuffling with her hands-free device trying to call Peter and Marshall. Marshall was worried and wanted to meet them there but Mary talked him out of it; the presence of more people would only reinforce Brandi's idea that this was a disaster. Unfortunately, Peter wasn't answering his cell.

Once at the hospital, everything went smoothly, without a single hitch as Mary flashed her star at every turn and managed to get Brandi into a room with an actual door. The hurdle came in a form Mary had not been expecting.

"You can't take him in," a large woman in nurse's scrubs with a remarkably beefy neck informed Mary once they made it up to maternity, indicating Sam. "No minors allowed."

"What?" Mary wrinkled her nose in that expert way she did, one eye on Brandi through the sliver of glass in the door separating them. "He's a baby."

"He's a minor," fat-neck said again. "Are you about to tell me he's a very short eighteen?"

This woman really was a trip. Who did she think she was dealing with? Not the master-of-the-snark, that was for sure.

"What do you suggest I do with him?" Mary wanted to know, swinging Sam around on her hip; he was rotating a toy truck in hand.

"I suggest you stay in the waiting room with everyone else," she declared boldly.

Meaning she leave Brandi alone, which was out-of-the-question. Who knew what level on the Richter scale she would reach all cooped up by herself? Mary was the only one who could rationalize with her in situations like these, she told herself. With Peter out of the loop, it was an impossibility.

"Yeah, _that's_ gonna happen," Mary scoffed with a great deal of sarcasm. "Look, I don't see what the conundrum is here," she said, using one of Marshall's words. "He doesn't do anything – he'll sit on my lap and chew his fingers…"

Blissfully, Sam chose the exact moment to do just that, handing the slobbery plastic truck to his mother.

"He _might_ walk around the room a few times, or is stretching your legs against protocol too?" she snapped, anxious to get to Brandi who was in a gown and getting into bed.

"Do I need to call security?"

"I don't know if you got the memo…" Mary yanked the five-point-star from her belt and flashed it in chubby-neck's face. "But I kind of _am_ security, in a matter of speaking. Still want to call or let me in to see my sister?"

The woman was visibly put-out and crossed her arms over her large middle, staring Mary down for a moment. But, Mary was well-trained in one-ups-manship and bored right back at her. After several moments, the nurse finally backed off, wordlessly throwing up her hands and retreating behind her desk. Mary took this to mean she was granted admittance and carted Sam off to the room, kissing his head as she did so.

"What kept you?" Brandi wanted to know when Mary entered with her nephew.

She was lying on her left side, one hand on her belly that lay beneath the billowy gown. The fabric was so large it concealed the bulge almost entirely. She was breathing a little harder than she would ordinarily, Mary suspected out of nerves, and there was still sweat beaded across her brow.

"Nurse Ratchet," Mary reported as she sat down at the bedside, settling Sam in her lap as promised.

As the words came out of her mouth, Mary noticed another nurse nearby at the sink. Although she definitely perked at hearing her colleague insulted, nary a phrase escaped and she turned from whatever she was doing with a dripping washcloth in hand.

She stepped to Brandi's front and it was apparent at once that she was kinder than her co-worker.

"Here sugar…" she said sweetly to Brandi. "Put this on your forehead; it might help your fever come down a little bit…"

Brandi was about to reach for the washcloth when Mary took it from the nurse and did it herself.

"I've got it," she said swiftly, adjusting it above Brandi's eyes with her free hand, the other gripping Sam. "Thanks."

The nurse smiled appreciatively and nodded.

"Someone will be in to get you sorted out soon," were her final words before she left the two sisters in peace.

And yet, once she was gone neither had much to say. Mary strongly suspected Sam would use the opportunity to fall asleep again, which meant it was going to be a long night for her and Marshall. He had already rested his head in the crook of his mother's arm while she stretched to mop Brandi's brow.

"Is it too cold?" Mary made mindless conversation.

"No," Brandi said blankly. "It's fine."

She'd chilled out a little bit and stopped crying, mostly since she hadn't had anyone to cry _at_ with Mary in the hall. But the older sister could tell she was still a bundle of anxiety and although there was every reason to believe nothing had gone wrong in terms of the baby, Mary couldn't help thinking this would be of little assistance to Brandi.

"Mary, I'm scared," she whispered suddenly.

To be expected and not-at-all surprising when it came to Brandi – as was the admission right out loud with no shame, something Mary would never do.

"I know," was all she could think of to say as she pulled the washcloth away; all she was succeeding in doing was making Brandi's hair wet. "But we don't know anything yet, so there's no point jumping to conclusions."

Brandi sighed, looking uncomfortable now as well as unhealthy.

"Where is Peter?" she mused, not exactly to Mary; more to thin air.

"I couldn't reach him," she answered anyway.

"He's probably in a meeting," Brandi offered.

Mary didn't know what to say or what to do. She'd never been good with compassion, and it still made her uneasy. All she could do was nuzzle up with Sam and try to keep him awake as a form of entertainment. Nearby, she spotted a set of surgical gloves shoved haphazardly into a bin on the wall. Like the infantile person she could sometimes be, she snatched them.

"Check this out Smush…" she made sure he was secure on her knee before she tossed the spare glove onto the bed and set about inflating the other like a balloon.

"Mary…" Brandi sighed warningly, as though this was not the moment.

"You got something better to pass the time; be my guest," Mary told her shortly between breaths. "Look Sam; it's like a water wing…" she waggled it in front of his face, pinching the top so she wouldn't let the air out.

"If a water wing had spikes or something…" Brandi joked poorly, referring to the five-finger slots.

"Or a blimp, like you," Mary teased lightly. "A miniature Hindenburg."

Brandi tried to smile while Sam began to bat at the glove with his little fingers, trying to stick his nail through the latex and reach the other side. More air was being let out the longer he swatted, and Mary whipped the hair tie off her wrist to seal it up.

"Balloon," she told her son distinctly. "Say it – balloon."

He didn't – he never did when Mary asked. He merely giggled and smacked, which made Mary laugh too. Once, she let her guard down and loosened her grip. He sent the homemade inflatable flying into Brandi, who had elbowed up a little on her pillow.

"Whoa!" she played along briefly. "You might be a volleyball star, Sammy boy."

Sam gurgled appreciatively, not knowing what she meant but enjoying the attention.

"Volleyball's for sissies," Mary decided as Brandi tossed the glove back to Sam.

"You would say that," her sister sighed, but Mary was pleased to see she was grinning. "What sport _isn't_ for sissies?"

"I don't know," Mary shrugged, keeping the glove away from Sam by keeping it afloat with her hands, batting it back and forth above his head so that his eyes scanned the air. "Prize-fighting?"

She let Sam get at it and together they bounced it back to Brandi. She concealed it beneath the blanket they'd thrown over her, hiding it from view.

"Where'd it go Sammy?" she asked mysteriously. "It's gone!"

Sam looked appropriately worried, unable to visualize what had happened to his toy, his big eyes sad and sorrowful. Mary hoped he might speak up if he wanted it badly enough, as she was so ridiculously concerned with his vocal skills.

However, all he did was look up at her as if she could explain it. She gave him a comical shrug in return.

With a flourish, Brandi made the glove reappear; her mouth in a gaping smile.

"I found it!"

Sam grinned, "Yay Wandi!"

Mary might've known he'd save the words for his aunt. It was not uncommon in their world. But instead of continuing to play with Sam, Mary was startled to see Brandi's eyes fill up with tears again – her lids squeezing shut, the presence of the flush in her cheeks more heightened. And yet Mary knew it wasn't pain or unwell that was causing the bout of emotion.

She took the inflated glove from the bed and handed it to Sam.

"Here…" she lifted him down off her lap. "Play with that."

Happy to have the balloon to himself, Sam did as told while Mary did what she could to tend to Brandi. They'd been doing so well; her distraction had worked wonders. What now?

"Squish, what?" she whispered evenly, leaning her chin in her hand on her knee to listen.

Brandi just shook her head, brushing the tears away from her feverish skin. She knew Mary hated dealing with episodes like this.

"Come on…" Mary sighed, trying to be casual. "Just tell me."

But she didn't really have to tell her. She knew what it was, at least in part. Brandi had never been very good at keeping herself in check when she was upset.

"I want one…"

Sam. But Mary played dumb.

"You'll have one," Mary assumed. "If you can stand to wait four more months."

"Mary…" she nudged herself up even further, so she was resting against the back of the bed only half-upright, but they could see one another better. "You don't know that…"

"There's not any reason to think otherwise," Mary decided swiftly.

"There's _every_ reason," Brandi moaned, shedding a few more tears. "I could've made him – her, whatever – sick. I could've caused something bad to happen…"

"Brandi, you didn't mean to eat the stupid kiwi," Mary rationalized, doing her best to keep up her old annoyance. "Well, you might've _meant_ to but you didn't know what was going to happen…" she reminded her. "You're not the world's-leading expert on pregnancy and produce or anything."

"Not like I had a lot growing up," Brandi muttered unexpectedly, thinking of how Jinx had-had to tell her there was a difference between lemons and limes.

Mary forced herself to laugh at this comment, not knowing where it had come from but finding it difficult to disagree.

"I'm just saying, don't go and lose it…" Mary advised. "It's not going to help anything…"

Her words were cut short by a sharp knock on the door, but whoever it was could obviously see through the tiny window and came in without invitation. The visitor turned out to be a male physician, which puzzled Mary since she knew Brandi's OBGYN was a woman.

"Brandi Alpert?" he inquired from his clipboard, pulling a pen from the pocket of his lab coat.

Brandi nodded with a swallow, "Yes."

Seeing the unfamiliar face Sam started to whimper and, as Brandi was occupied and too high up, he toddled back to his mother, pulling on her legs and wanting to be picked up. The doctor shot her a look at his presence; clearly, he disapproved as did his desk nurse.

"Get up here Smush…" Mary reached and hoisted him up around the waist, putting him back on her lap.

Perhaps as a nervous habit, he began to chew his fingers again and continued to look fearful.

"Brandi Alpert…" the man referred back to his trusty clipboard without comment. "Age thirty-six, twenty-two weeks pregnant…" he was flipping now. "Suffered possible allergic reaction to…?" Mary didn't miss him raise a skeptical eyebrow at what came next. "Kiwi?"

"Well…" Brandi hedged and became suddenly shy. "I mean…it might've been the kiwi…" she fumbled. "I'm not really sure…"

Obviously, the presence of the stranger was throwing her off as much as it was Sam, who was becoming louder the more agitated he got. Mary patted him on the back in hopes that he would hush.

"When did you start experiencing symptoms?" the doctor cut across her, not noticing the plight.

"Sam, be quiet…"

"This afternoon…"

"You don't know what time?"

"Sam, put a lid on it…!" Mary hissed when he began to moan through his fingers.

"Well, not exactly…"

"I'm sorry…" the doctor finally interrupted, and it was clear he was annoyed when he turned straight to Mary and her noisy child. "Is there any possibility we could do this without the infant present?"

Mary balked and shot him her best glare.

"Do you have a better place to _put_ 'the infant?'" she didn't care for that term. "Tell me you don't suggest Nurse Sunshine out there."

"Mary, please don't," Brandi muttered shortly, knowing exactly how her sister could be with people who had a chip on their shoulder.

Mary was startled, and more than just a little put-out that Brandi was not being grateful when she was here sitting with her, bumming off work and the rest of her afternoon to find out what was going on. The only way to counteract her feelings was to stick up for her sister when Brandi would not.

"Where is her OBGYN?" Mary wanted to know as she stood up, bouncing Sam to quiet him. "Isn't this a pregnancy-related issue?"

"I'm the on-call doctor," he informed her snidely. "I'll assess the fever and any other adjoining symptoms. She's lucky, her OBGYN just finished a delivery and will be down in due time to do an ultrasound."

"In 'due time,'" Mary scoffed, knowing this could be anywhere from three minutes to three hours. "What part of this do you consider lucky?" she reflected on his other words.

"Getting you to the hall would be first on _my_ list," he offered with a pompous smirk.

Mary was ready to hit him, but quickly talked herself down with Sam in her arms, although he was really asking for it. Still, she knew she'd pushed it once already with her son in the exam room and figured it would probably be better to try and get a hold of Peter again, whether Brandi wanted her gone or not.

Hating herself for backing down, "I'll see if I can get Peter," she informed Brandi. "Sit tight. Don't freak out."

Not exactly words of wisdom, and the look on Brandi's face certainly indicated this, but she knew as well as Mary they weren't going to get anywhere else.

Once in the hall and seated on a particularly hard couch, Mary allowed Sam to suck on _her_ fingers to soothe his aching back teeth, and dialed Peter's cell again. When she didn't get an answer, she phoned information to get the number for the Autoplex. One of his salesmen informed her that their boss was, indeed, in a meeting and would be back at four o'clock. It was 3:30 and a half hour seemed like an eternity right now.

Then, because she was bored and knew she would not be allowed in now that she'd been booted, she called Marshall back. She'd just seen Brandi's OBGYN enter to do the ultrasound.

"How's Brandi?" her husband asked as soon as he picked up. "They figure out what's up?"

"I don't know," Mary reported unhelpfully, her fingers growing numb and increasingly wet the longer Sam gnawed. "They kicked me out because of Sam."

"I thought that might happen," Marshall told her. "Kids and the infections they carry."

"Something like that," Mary grumbled. "But still, who knows what Brandi's doing in there without me; she could be getting totally manic…"

"Mare, she's a big girl," Marshall reminded her gently. "She'll be all right, regardless of what happens."

Mary wasn't sure this was true – she never was when it came to Brandi – but she didn't feel up to arguing and sighed, debating whether to fight Sam for her hand instead.

"If you think it's gonna be awhile," Marshall was saying. "I can come down there and get Sam – Stan will understand."

"No…" Mary shook her head even though Marshall could not see her. "They just went in to do the ultrasound a few minutes ago, so they should be wrapping up."

A silence fell between them – an uncomfortable one at that – which was pretty unusual when it came to Mary and Marshall. Silences were often a welcome change. Mary tried to pull her fingers loose to chew on one of her nails as she always did when she was nervous, but remembered Sam. He whined with the yank and she was forced to let him continue drooling all over her.

"She's gonna be fine, babe," Marshall finally said, knowing what she was thinking. "No matter what, she'll be okay."

Still, Mary did not relish another blow to Brandi's existence. She was finally getting things worked out and on-track – ever since she'd married Peter – but this could send her straight back into a spiral if something had gone wrong. Mary didn't have enough knowledge of babies in utero and allergic reactions, but she liked to think that if such a thing were nipped in the bud properly, no lasting damage would be done.

"I should go back in there," Mary completely ignored Marshall, standing and palming Sam to make her march; she had a feeling the OBGYN would be more tolerant.

She heard the tiniest of sighs escape Marshall before, "If you want. I should be home soon; bring Brandi back here if she needs some time to wind down."

"Sure," but Mary was already halfway to the door before she hung up without saying goodbye.

Her skin was on high alert as she pushed her way back inside, but the minute she hit the confines of the room, she felt relief wash over her in a giant cascading and cleansing wave. The place was filled with the sounds of what was unmistakably a steady, swift and strong beating heart. Mary recognized the telltale _whom-whom-whom_ from her own pregnancy, and didn't realize until this moment how good it made you feel. To know that the little being that lived within was doing its part to make it out one day.

As if she needed confirmation, Brandi turned at the sound of the door and the tears of despair that had been in her eyes not long before had washed away to make room for tears of joy. Mary couldn't help it; she smiled too.

"Mary…!" she exclaimed throatily, her blissful theatrics almost as finely tuned as her melancholy ones. "Everything's okay! He…" Brandi swallowed. "Or she, whatever…" for the third time. "…Is fine! See?"

Mary did see. Seriously, how could she miss it? She stepped closer to the bed, watching Brandi's doctor direct the wand across her belly to get the reading. The tiny figure of the unborn baby swished back and forth on the screen, providing all the confirmation needed.

Slowly, the elder sister placed a hand on the younger's shoulder.

"I'm glad, Squish."

The doctor looked up at the sound of the second voice, which prompted Brandi to make introductions.

"Sorry…" she laughed a little drunkenly. "This is my sister, Mary."

"Doctor Kerwin," she greeted with a kind smile. "Everything's looking good in here. Sounds like you were the one who made the kiwi assessment," she joked, directed at Mary.

"A lucky guess," Mary offered modestly without taking her hand off Brandi's shoulder.

"Well, right-on-the-money, in any case," the doctor praised. "Our patient here still has a low-grade fever but we gave her an injection to wipe out the rest," she explained. "Within a couple hours she should be back to normal, and this little one is even better."

Brandi was clearly beside herself with joy, but couldn't stop crying and it was obvious the symptoms had not completely died. Mary could tell just from having the hand on her shoulder that she was still warm; she was going to crash out quick once they got in the car.

"I would like someone keeping a watch on her tonight…" Doctor Kerwin went on from her spot at the bottom of the bed. "Just as a precaution…"

Mary knew she was about to suggest that she do it, when Brandi spoke up.

"Oh, my husband will be home tonight," she voiced. "Mare, did you get a hold of him?" she asked, turning to stare up at her sister. "I don't want him to worry…"

"No," she shook her head. "He was in a meeting, but he'll be out soon," she told her. "Marshall sends his love, though."

Brandi's smile, if possible, only stretched wider. Mary knew it was not only for her brother-in-law's sweet words, but for the fact that Mary had thought to share them.

"You know Brandi…" Doctor Kerwin went on pleasantly. "While we're all set up here, I may be able to let you know the sex if you're interested."

Brandi cooled out a little in the presence of a question she'd obviously not anticipated. Mary remembered her own appointment when she'd found out Baby Shannon was a boy; she wasn't even supposed to have gone to the doctor, but Marshall had forced her after the first round of Braxton Hicks in Kansas. On a whim and wanting to please him, she'd asked and gotten her answer.

"You can tell already?" Brandi wanted to know, wiping up a little under her eyes while the doctor finished with the ultrasound and began to unhook.

"Sometimes it's still a little early," she admitted, Brandi elbowing herself up to listen. "But I got a good read. What do you say?"

As though he knew his mother was recalling his own time in the womb, Sam gurgled loudly behind his fingers and Mary decided to use the opportunity for what it was.

"Yeah Squish," she goaded. "Smush here says it's a go. Trash the whole 'him-her-whatever' bit and get it verified."

But Brandi, while not known for her patience, _was_ known for the joy of silly, childish surprises, and she shook her head.

"I don't think so," she said with a grin. "Besides, even if I did want to – Peter's not here," she continued thoughtfully. "But, I don't. I'd rather it was a surprise."

"Fair enough," Doctor Kerwin nodded her approval, winding up her equipment while Mary opted to go on nagging Brandi now that they were out of the woods.

"Come _on_, Squish," she turned remarkably whiny, Brandi pulling her gown down now that the ultrasound was complete. "I gotta know if Smush's buddy is gonna be little miss or little mister."

Brandi was chuckling, but it was actually the doctor's chortling that got Mary's attention. She turned to see what this was about, and fortunately didn't have to wait.

"I let this one go the first time…" she articulated with a very amused grin, glancing up at Mary. "Smush?" eying the little boy.

Mary wanted to be irritated, as she had been with another doctor and nurse already that afternoon, but she recognized the sincerity in this woman. Regardless, hearing 'Squish' and 'Smush' twice on top of one another would be a little confusing.

"His name is Sam," the older Shannon told the good doctor. "Smush is just a…"

"Very odd and completely unnecessary generational nickname of some kind…" Brandi interrupted, and Mary rolled her eyes.

"Well, not exactly my business," Doctor Kerwin admitted, halfway to the door. "But I was curious. How old is he?" she nodded at Sam.

"Fifteen months," Mary reported, trying not to sound too overly proud as she rumpled up Sam's hair. "Not much of a talker…" she tacked on as though to compensate, bouncing her boy as if to say she loved him anyway.

"Ah…" she waved a no-nonsense hand, the other on the knob. "Give him something to talk _about_, and you'll hear him."

Mary let out a reluctant smile as she digested that, and although Marshall often told her the exact same thing, it was a comfort to hear it from a professional. Brandi wasn't the only one getting her mind put at ease today.

"You can get dressed, Brandi," the professional herself instructed. "I'll get your discharge papers and get you out of here – just make sure you come back in if any of those symptoms stick around."

Brandi voiced her recognition and understanding of the directions and gathered her clothes from the end of the bed, shuffling off to the adjoining bathroom to put them back on. With her gone and Mary's arms becoming sore from hanging onto squirmy, drooly Sam, she used the absence of her sister to let her son occupy the bed and crawl around in the covers.

Brandi returned quickly, obviously ready to get on the road and be home with her husband, who had been blissfully unaware of the small scare the entire time. Mary could safely say she was about ready for the same – she was looking forward to seeing Marshall, although felt badly she'd bailed on he and Stan for the afternoon, even if it couldn't have been helped.

Brandi walked around to Mary's side of the bed and sat on the edge while Mary occupied the chair, fooling with her phone. Sam had nudged himself next to his aunt, watching her put her things in her purse.

"Brandi, Marshall said we should stop back by the house if you're feeling up to it," the older sister recalled vaguely, not looking at her. "We ever get a hold of Peter sometime in this century; Marshall can do dinner for four."

"Five," Brandi corrected deviously, eyeing her in the ornery way she sometimes did. "Don't forget Sammy boy," she patted his head.

But 'Sammy boy' was distracted; practically forcing himself into Brandi's lap, but it was his increased interest in her belly that Mary noticed. She furrowed her brow at the way his hands combed along the side, eyes just inches from the bulge.

"You turn into a dog, bud?" his mother mused; he was nearly sniffing his aunt, and Brandi was giggling.

But the giggles turned abruptly into a quick, startled gasp, issuing from Brandi's throat out of nowhere. One hand jumped to her stomach, unintentionally shoving Sam's aside.

"Oh my God…" she breathed, eyes distant and away from her sister's.

"What?" Mary sat up instantly, abandoning her phone. "What's wrong?" she just assumed.

It took Brandi a moment, Mary growing more impatient by the second, Sam waiting expectantly, until the answer came.

"Mary…"

And the laughs returned – booming and joyous and full of unrivaled delight.

"It's _kicking_!" she declared. "The baby's kicking!"

Mary might've known Brandi would take this ordinary event as some sort of phenomenon, marveling and basking in its wonder that would persist in excess for the remaining four months. It was really the timing that perplexed the more cynical of the sisters, not to mention Sam's – what was it? – _intuition_ that such a thing was going to happen seconds before it did.

"No way…" Mary was disbelieving and wasn't about to stick a hand on Brandi's belly, and so left the job to Sam. "Get a second opinion on that for me sheriff…"

Leaning in her chair, she took Sam's chubby fingers – the ones he'd not been chewing on – and held them to the side of Brandi's stomach, right next to where his aunt's already resided.

There was no mistake with Sam on it as well. He cackled with laughter at the sensation and wiggled his hand free of his mother's, like it was too much all at once, like such a thing couldn't possibly be.

"Sammy, that's your cousin…" Brandi told him, and she was the one who guided him back to feel again without letting go of his wrist. "Feels like butterflies, doesn't it?" she pondered. "Teeny-tiny feet…"

"Guess that kiwi woke him up," Mary decided, putting an uncharacteristically positive spin on it.

"Or she…" Brandi teased, recalling how Mary had poked fun at her before, blue eyes meeting green. "Whatever."

Mary sat back then as she watched her son with the strangest sense of awe on his face at feeling the unborn toes of Brandi's child announcing their presence, his blue eyes bright and full of curiosity. She saw Brandi whispering softly to him, telling him what lay ahead, rejuvenated with all being right with the world once more.

And Mary realized, not for the first time, what a gift they really had kept protected that day.

"That's a _baby_…" Brandi murmured. "Baby…"

"Wandi, baby," Sam actually repeated, something he almost never did.

"You're so smart, my Sammy boy…" Brandi laid a smooch on his soft, flyaway molasses waves. "I hope your new cousin is _just like you_."

**A/N: Blah, I don't know if this was any good or not LOL! I wish, for such a long chapter, that it had a little more meaning. It seems random. Later, when Sam reaches about five years old; all the chapters are long but I also think they're better. Anyway, probably no need to jabber like this but thank-you so much for reviewing and I hope you'll continue to do so even if this one was sub-par!**


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: I'm glad I had some folks like the last chapter! I was worried, but it seems it went over well! Hope you all are into the next one, because it is fairly high drama. Remember what I said up-front about one-shots being hard to write because they need to be on such a broad end of the spectrum to be interesting – cheesy-silly-goofy, sappy-sugar-sweet, or super emotional LOL!**

**Don't read the author's notes at the bottom if you are completely spoiler-free for the actual show!**

XXX

_Twenty Months, June:_

It was surprisingly pleasant for early June, Mary thought as she attempted a bout of frolicking with Marshall and Sam in the backyard. Sam was perfectly comfortable in his overalls and red T-shirt, for once not whining and trying to undo the straps. It was a rare joint day off, and Mary mostly stood aside as Marshall tried to improve Sam's coordination by tossing him a ball in the grass.

"Here it comes, sheriff…!" he called, swinging the sphere back and forth between his legs while Sam wiggled around about five feet away in anticipation. "You ready?"

Sam's little tongue was poking between his teeth and his hair was all windswept. Mary reached over for about the sixth time to get it out of his eyes. It needed a trimming and the curls were rapidly becoming wilder and wilder.

"Ally-oop!" Marshall called.

He mocked flinging the ball straight up in the air, which definitely fooled Sam. His blue eyes journeyed straight to the sky, matching its vibrant clearness. When there was nothing to see, he turned slowly back to Marshall. He was jiggling the ball enticingly with a silly smirk on his face.

"Sam, I teased you!" his dad called, and Mary was hard-pressed not to smile as her son giggled feverishly at being taken in.

"Don't let him do that, Smush," his mother knelt beside him to whisper in his ear. "You have to show him who's boss."

Sam blinked a few times at having her so close, but nodded his head as though he understood, or at least understood Mary wanted him to do something. She remembered questions usually worked better to garner a response, so she re-worded.

"Do you think you can get it?" she asked.

He didn't know what that meant, but just as Mary had hoped, he recognized the inquiry, the tone of voice.

"Yeah!" he declared, bouncing up and down on the heels of his feet so erratically he fell back onto his butt into the grass.

"Whoa…!" Mary laughed as he came down with a thump. She hoisted him up under his arms without giving him a chance to do it himself, "Reel it in a little, sheriff. Save it for the majors."

"Okay Sam…" Marshall called, unable to hear either one of them from his position. "No hoodwinking this time…" he decided. "Get ready."

Mary wanted to take her boy's hand to ensure he wouldn't topple over again, but settled for an anchor around his back, just barely touching.

"One…" Marshall began.

Mary didn't miss the opportunity to infuse.

"Sam, what comes after one?" she whispered.

No answer. She'd been trying, just a little too overenthusiastically, to teach him a few things since he was nearing the twenty-four months mark. Marshall had obliged her nagging to a reasonable point, but often had to rein her in when she became overzealous.

"Two…" Marshall began to swing his arm back and forth again.

Sam sprung up and down a few more times, knocking Mary's hand aside trying to prepare himself.

"Three!" her husband bellowed.

He mocked a very hard serve, but in reality popped it to his son with the lightest of tosses. Sam, predictably, flung out his arms to grab too late and the ball bounced into his chest. Feeling the smack, he fumbled all over, arms waving in every direction and knocked the ball upward into his face. This prompted a delighted giggle and Mary managed to slip her fingers in at just the right time before it hit the ground, shoving it into Sam's arms.

"Sam, you caught it!" Marshall fabricated outrageously, holding up his own hands in triumph. "You caught it!"

Sam looked satisfyingly surprised and turned to Mary with his sweet, perpetual little smile.

"Mama, caw't," he gurgled proudly, muddying the term. "Caw't ball…"

"Of course you did," Mary assured him, rumpling up his hair which was all over the place. "Gonna be a fielder someday."

"Mare, do you hear that?" Marshall stood up all the way while Mary was feeding their son chock-full of lies.

Listening to this, she did the same and shook her head.

"Hear what?"

Marshall obviously wasn't convinced and left his stance in the grass, stepping over to the patio to peer through the glass. This upset Sam, who began to fuss at his game ending so abruptly.

"No play!" he protested, standing on tiptoe and trying to yank the hem of Mary's shirt. "No play!"

"Calm down…" Mary murmured absently, shoving him back.

"There's someone at the door," Marshall reported, squinting at the glare the sun was casting on the windowpane. "I can't see who – just the shape through the frosted glass…"

He was about to go inside and investigate but Mary, bumming off Sam, strode over to stop him.

"Stay and play with him," she instructed, jerking her head at Sam who was rapidly ascending into a wail. "He's gonna blow a fuse if you leave."

Recognizing the truth of her words, Marshall agreed and went back to Sam, scooping up the ball on his way. He claimed they were going to stand further apart now; he was going to make it harder. Mary could hear Sam abandon his tears almost at once as she slid open the door and went back in the house.

In the brief moments while she made her way there, she couldn't help hoping it didn't have anything to do with work. Strictly speaking, witnesses couldn't know where she lived. In very special, very rare cases where the poor sap really was in the program of nothing to do with their own volition, Marshall would give them up as a support system. But for the most part, they were to stay ambiguous.

Yet, when she undid the deadbolt and tugged at the knob, the face on the other side was far worse than that of the former criminal.

Or, maybe it _was_ worse. Because that face made her _think_ of the illegal and unlawful individuals; the illegal and unlawful individual she yearned for the most. The lasting faux-virtuousness in his features; the light, fair beard that combed his cheeks and chin. And the eyes – the cobalt quality was completely uncanny, and also the most frightening.

"What the hell are you doing here?" was Mary's response to Scott, the half-brother to whom she did not want to share even a portion, let alone the whole thing.

And then, before he could even respond, "Brandi doesn't live here anymore. She has her own place."

She wondered if he already knew this, if he knew about Peter and Jesse too. She had no idea; Brandi had certainly become intelligent enough not to mention him if they were still in touch. She knew Mary wanted their distance kept.

"I've already been to see Brandi," he claimed. "Just a little while ago."

"Are you two still girlfriends?" Mary decided she might as well ask. "Gossiping about the woes and tragedies of being a Shannon. Or whatever the hell it is you are," she couldn't remember Scott's last name, whatever fake identity James had chosen to foist on his second family.

"No," he told her. "Not until today anyway. I came because…"

Mary knew why he'd come, or she could venture a pretty good guess. She just didn't want him to say it. Until now, this had felt like the first day she hadn't thought about him – about her father – since he'd died. She knew there had been others, that they'd come and gone, but the absence of dwelling was suddenly smacking her very hard. It was worse when she forgot to remember.

"Because I just found out," he concluded awkwardly. "About our father."

Mary wouldn't step aside so he could come in.

"Nice work Clouseau," she muttered waspishly. "Only took you two months."

It wasn't as if she'd wanted him around during that time anyway. She wanted him around _now_ even less, with her throat closing up and the familiarity, the rawness and freshness of James' death settling heavily over her once more.

"Nobody told me!" a little bit of indignation worked its way in. "Me or Lauren or…" he'd been about to reveal his second sister's name when Mary shut him up.

"How were we _supposed_ to?" she wanted to know, sticking a hand on her hip. "Where the hell do you even live?"

"In Miami!" he insisted. "You know that!"

"Since when?" Mary wrinkled her nose in that expert way she always did.

"Well, Brandi knows," he rectified. "I may move around a bit for work but I have a place in Miami…"

"A bit for work," Mary scoffed, still blocking his path.

She had no idea how much he knew about Marshall or Sam and she never, _ever_ wanted him to find out. It was essential she keep him at bay. Internally, her mind was buzzing wondering what Brandi had done when Scott had come to call. She was far easier influenced than Mary and the elder sister was not convinced this was mere loneliness that had Scott on her doorstep. He wanted something.

"Yes, for work," he projected with false-confidence. "Day-trading…"

A second sneer, "How's that going for you?"

The brief poise fell away almost instantly as Scott shuffled his shoes and looked sheepish.

"Not so good…"

"Color me surprise," Mary snapped heartlessly.

Visibly, Scott had the urge to defend himself even if it wasn't worth a damn thing to Mary, and touting his job wasn't going to do it. Attempting to make nice, he sighed and leaned his hand on the doorframe.

"Do you mind if I come in?" he asked. "Because I…"

"Yes," Mary interrupted sharply, speaking right over him. "I do mind."

He went silent, sighing again and shifting off the frame. He rubbed the side of his temple in agitation and the gesture about catapulted Mary off the edge of the cliff she was so close to falling over. He looked _so_ much like him. It was terrifying; it was so scary Mary could hardly handle it. Her emotions, already so close to the surface since James had died, were going to bubble and boil in excess.

"I don't want you showing up at my house," she informed him directly, poking her finger in his chest.

She knew if she kept her voice up Marshall would come in. She wasn't sure if she wanted this or not. What she wanted, more than anything, was for Scott to leave. She could feel herself becoming a wreck; she'd rarely felt this out-of-control with emotions and it was as frightening as everything else.

"You _have_ your sisters," she went on snidely. "Leave me be and stay the _hell_ away from Brandi."

She had to protect Brandi. She was too young – upwards of thirty-six, but still – to know how to tell him no. She craved family and connections and Mary refused to let her get mixed up with this poser. This spitting image.

"Brandi wanted to get to know me before you came along," he accused pitifully. "You don't want me – fine. But don't go making her decisions for her."

"_Why_ are you here?" Mary spat to counteract this. "What do you want?"

Her voice had climbed to an unnatural level and she was inches from his face, willing him off her porch and out the door. She had no desire for him to see her become a mess and she knew it was coming.

"Our father is dead!" he declared boldly, nearly spitting on her they were so close and Mary felt her heart splinter into painful, jagged shards at the words. "I miss him the same as you!"

"You do _not_ miss him the same as me!" this was too much. "You don't know a Goddamn thing about him; you thought he was some sugar-sweet Willy Wonka for Christ's sake!"

"He loved us!" Scott insisted, forcing himself to back up but not leave. "Me and Lauren and Ashley!"

It was then that Mary heard the back door, heard the step of Marshall's boots on the kitchen linoleum but she was immersed and couldn't turn around. She felt, vaguely, how flushed her cheeks were, that they were slick with wetness but she was so confused.

She didn't want anything to do with Scott but his resemblance, his similarities to James so soon after the accident was yanking – tugging, pulling, choking – her heartstrings.

"He did love us!" Scott was still shouting even as Marshall dashed over, putting Sam to the floor to investigate. "You can't admit that – you never could!"

"Who is this?"

"He loved you like he loved the rest of us!"

Jinx.

"Mary, what the hell is going on?"

"He _chose_ us!" was the last cry that came from this supposed brother. "Not you! Us!"

Mary couldn't stop the hand that flung out and shoved him – hard – in the chest. He staggered, but she obviously hadn't hurt him and Marshall had grabbed her so fast she spun too. She even fought him; she was so desperate to get at Scott.

"Mary!" Marshall shouted in his best Marshal voice. "Mary, stop it!" he had to pull her in at the elbows so she wouldn't retaliate. "Enough!"

She finally wrenched herself free and out of the doorway – done, finished. Sam was screaming, wailing and bawling at the top of his lungs in the middle of the living room but she couldn't bring herself to comfort him. She was outside herself, outside her body. What was she thinking? What had she done?

The rest came in a blur.

"Who are you?" she just barely heard Marshall in a dangerously low voice. And fainter still, "Are you a witness?"

"What…?" Scott was dazed from being pushed. "No. I'm Scott. I'm…"

Marshall did not need to know anything else and immediately cut him off.

"Scott, I would think even you would be intelligent enough to realize that this is not the best time and I would strongly advise you leave while you still have all your limbs," he warned distinctly. "We have nothing here of use to you. Now, kindly get off the lawn and try not to tread in the flowers on your way out."

Scott huffed for a moment before he saw that there was nothing else to be done and sauntered down the walk, into some junk heap of a car, and drove out of sight.

Marshall shut the door quickly and even though he knew things that waited behind weren't pleasant, he was startled to turn and find that Mary was in complete disarray. A total wreck, demolished, reduced to rubble. Her sobbing and heaving mixed very crudely with Sam, who was just all-out howling at the loud noise and confusion.

Although Marshall knew it was essential he tend to his son – and soon – he wasn't sure he'd ever seen Mary like this. But there was something to be said for it; despite grieving her father's death, she'd never done the full-on cleanse. She'd shed her tears and voiced her doubts, but fear of Marshall's opinion, Brandi becoming a new mother, all of it had forced her to move on. He guessed seeing Scott at the door had finally given her the final push and she'd come apart.

"Mary…" he intoned so quietly he found it very likely she did not hear.

Stepping up to her, he was certain he'd have to guide her into his embrace, but he didn't. As soon as he was close enough, she all-but collapsed into him, burying her face in the shelter of his chest so she wouldn't have to face the outside world. The unmistakable sobs issuing from his wife broke his heart, but he knew it was better not to say anything. He just let her burrow and just let her cry, running one hand up and down her back.

After several minutes, the room reverberating with the mixture of mutual unhappiness from mother and son, Mary finally spoke in thick and muddled tones.

"I thought it was him…" she just barely pulled back, Marshall almost unable to understand. "I forgot he was gone and I thought it was him…" she went on recklessly. "Just for a second – just for a flash – I saw that face and I've pictured that face so many times on my doorstep…"

Marshall could tell she was feeling guilty as well as grief-stricken. Tears still streaming, he kissed the crown of her head, then her temple, and finally her cheek, hoping the tenderness would calm her.

"He's not coming back…" she wept.

"I know, babe," was the best he could do, still rubbing her back.

"It was easier before he was dead…" she shook her head, treading a few steps further away. "It was easier to pretend…"

Marshall understood the logic in this, but Sam had reached tornado-siren-status and had graduated to clutching his beloved stuffed horse while he plopped on the floor and sobbed.

"Mare, I'm gonna have to get him…" Marshall conceded. "He's frightened…"

Mary nodded shakily; hardly daring to believe they'd managed to ignore him this long and also knowing it was her and her theatrics that was scaring their son. With this shame came another, knowing she should not have laid a hand on Scott – for any reason, but especially with Sam nearby.

"Come on buddy…" Marshall lifted Sam off the floor, which must've deafened him when his open mouth passed by his ear. "It's all right pal…"

Mary watched as Marshall did his best to comfort their manic child, who was going beet red and breathless in all the chaos. Sam flailed at first, but slowly settled his cries into Marshall's chest just as Mary had done. His dad bounced him lightly, speaking softly and murmuring in his ear.

"Shh…" he soothed. "Who's my sweet Sam…?" he asked in that beautiful, wonderful way he did.

He whimpered and hiccupped coming down off the wave, but his huge watery eyes were with Mary, who was still a mess although she'd quieted down a little bit. Sam was obviously more perceptive than his mother gave him credit for, because he fussed all over again seeing her as such.

Marshall was clearly determined not to go down that road.

"No-no…" he whispered calmly, venturing over to his wife. "It's okay – mama's okay…" he promised.

Sam was close enough to see for himself now, but maintained that fretful gaze on Mary's weepy face.

"See – mama's okay…" Marshall reinforced. "Take him, Mare…" her husband had to remind her.

This was as good an idea as any, and Mary accepted her son as Marshall passed him into her arms. This was evidently a perfect remedy. Sam sighed almost at once, contented and crashed knowing Mary had not entirely transformed and cooed sweetly, rolling his head onto her shoulder.

She patted his back a little harder than she would've done ordinarily, but he was all hiccupy and running out of air. She liked the feeling of his head beside hers, the way his hair fluttered onto her cheek.

"Sit down…" Marshall suggested quietly. "Sit…"

Mary didn't know what else to do, so she sat, still clutching Sam and he sprawled down her upper body with the drop. Marshall settled himself beside them, putting his arm around Mary who was still sniffling pretty well. But she had to be a mom now.

"I'm sorry bud…" she murmured, rocking him just a little like he was newborn again. "I'm sorry…"

She felt Marshall squeeze her shoulder, but she still felt badly for having let her feelings take precedence over her son's. Just fifteen minutes before they'd been fine; they'd been fooling around in the backyard on a gorgeous summer day. How could the switch have come on so abruptly?

Mary took her turn at sighing, fingering her way through Sam's hair, and he eventually wiggled down on her chest so he could turn his head to look at Marshall. Marshall himself found the pair of them quite a sight, and Sam just looked so melancholy for a boy so young.

He wondered if cheering him up would go anywhere toward doing the same for Mary.

"Saaaammm…" he whispered enticingly. "You want to play our special game of Sam-Bam?"

It was such a dumb name for something that was really not a game at all, but one of Mary's convoluted schemes to pack their son with knowledge. The belief from their general public was that Marshall was the one who was concerned with his intelligence, but he simply spouted in hopes it would rub off. Mary was much more obsessed with making sure he actually got it, and he was far too young for them to worry about it.

"Sam, where's your nose?" Marshall asked, pretending to be lost and pondering with his hand on his chin.

Mary seemed to be zoning out and Sam wasn't fooled. He shook his head.

"No nose…" he buried his face in Mary's chest. "No nose…"

This was code for, 'I'm far too sorrowful to bother with your childish antics' Marshall thought.

"Oh, silly!' his dad reached and poked him in the arm. "You do so have a nose! I don't know where mine is! I need your help!"

Mary didn't speak, but nudged Sam in his shoulder to get him to unearth. When he did, he was trying to hold fast to grumpy, but daddy's approval often kept him from succumbing.

Slowly, Sam considered and then raised a tiny finger to his face uncertainly. He was a little off, and his nail landed more underneath his eye but, wordlessly, Mary guided it across to his nose.

"Bam Sam!" Marshall called, placing his palm on his boy's honker like he was pushing a button.

He gave a reluctant grin at this. He liked the rhyme and the enthusiasm with which Marshall said it.

"Okay now…" Marshall was boosted and decided to continue if Mary was going to be so quiet with Sam sprawled out on her torso. "Where are Sam's eyes?"

He often had trouble with this one. Marshall immediately decided to help him out in hopes that it would make Mary smile. He shut his lids and stuck his hands out in front of him, groping blindly.

"I can't see – I can't see!" he blundered dramatically. "Where are my eyes?"

A giggle erupted from their boy and just as Marshall cocked one blue orb to watch, Sam blinked furiously in answer. He instantly turned shy after doing so, leaning into Mary again and trying to hide from his dad with a coy, soft smile.

Marshall gasped and placed his hands over his eyes and re-opened them like he was playing peek-a-boo.

"Bam Sam!"

Now not wanting to be left out, "Bam," he repeated, although lacking a little gusto.

"Wham-bam…" Marshall reinforced, tickling his fingers up and down his back.

Mary was still silent, and still very teary-eyed, just letting the goofiness go on around her, not going to be swayed into false happiness. She'd been hit and she'd been hit hard, and Marshall was dismayed.

Regardless, he pressed on.

"Where's your belly, Sam?"

'Belly' was one of his favorite words, and one Marshall knew he would grasp. He could entertain himself for hours with such a phrase if you just asked; he'd go around the room pointing out everyone's belly with great passion. Mary, once so amused with this affinity, had left him nearly-alone with Jesse one afternoon so he could poke his belly. Jesse had only been about the size of a loaf of bread, only stirring a few times from getting prodded in the stomach.

As it was, Sam shifted onto his side so Mary had to anchor him with her arm and patted one hand sound on his tummy like a drum with a very genuine grin.

"Belly!"

Marshall was quick as he stuck his finger in his son, circa the Pillsbury Doughboy.

"Bam Sam!"

A giddy laugh, "Bam-bam!" And then, "More-more!"

"Okay…" Marshall sighed. "One more…"

He wanted to talk to Mary and now that Sam was chilling out, hopefully he could taper their game off and get him busy while he tended to his very shaken wife.

"This one's tough…" he decided, wiggling his eyebrows for entertainment.

It still surprised him, to this day, that Mary had included this in her list when she'd made up this little game. But he couldn't argue with it.

"Where's your heart?"

Sam was purposefully stumped. Marshall could tell by the way he frowned and turned sullen again that he disapproved of this question and wanted a better one. But Marshall kept his eyebrows arched, maintaining contact with his boy, and drew a circle around his chest to give him an idea. He kept tracing in midair as the moments passed and Sam's comprehension dawned.

But when the surly look faded away, he still looked just a little bit perplexed. And Marshall was astonished to see him; eyes still with his father, stretch and place his pudgy fingers on Mary's ribcage. He just sat there, poised in action waiting for Marshall to tell him he was right.

The father was initially too touched to bother, but immediately realized he needed to keep it together because Mary had welled-up completely, shutting her eyes against the tears.

"Well…that's actually mama's heart…" he eventually whispered.

Sam merely pouted that the game had ended on such a low note and Marshall thought perhaps it was safe to detach him from Mary and put him to the ground. He tolerated this and immediately toddled off for his toys.

Marshall wasted no time scooting over and pulling Mary back into his embrace. She rested her head inside his shoulder, less out-of-control but tears still gushing from her eyes. It was making them burn; she couldn't believe she'd let herself get sucked in so severely. He was gone – of course he was gone. How on earth could she have forgotten?

"I shouldn't have hit him…" was her random remark while Marshall stroked her hair.

"No," Marshall agreed calmly above her. "You definitely should not have. But I heard him, and there was no reason for him to speak to you that way."

"He was upset…" she claimed, hardly daring to believe she was sticking up for Scott. "And out-of-the-loop…"

"Yes," Marshall was likely to agree with anything. "This is true."

Mary exhaled as she shuddered and Marshall held her tighter, continuing his soothing movements while Sam's precious babble sounded in the background.

"I don't know what's going on with me…" Mary blundered on, muffled from being huddled inside of Marshall. "I thought I was over it…" she assumed. "It's been two months…"

"There's no right way or right time to grieve," Marshall stated philosophically. "This was a trigger."

The word made her think of Jinx, and she recalled she'd fallen back on those words of her mother's earlier.

"But I already did the whole…" she shook her head with what little room she had. "Fall to pieces, blubber uncontrollably, and ship it out…"

"Not really," Marshall finally disagreed. "You told me how you felt and you got upset, but we were away and you were self-conscious and then Jesse came along…" he reminded her. "You brushed past it; you found a way but…"

"I get it," Mary sighed, but without disdain. "I guess."

She pulled away and wiped at her eyes, straying to Sam playing by himself on the floor with some of his horses and trucks. She was becoming more humiliated with every passing second, and Marshall obviously sensed it.

"Mary, there's _nothing_ wrong with it," he declared boldly. "It's not a weakness. At all."

Mary was not entirely reassured and did not feel much better, which was something Marshall rarely failed to do. Unfortunately, she had no opportunity to respond to what he'd said because her phone started buzzing on the coffee table. She sighed again and pushed her hair out of her face, picking it up to see who it was.

"Brandi…"

"You sure you're up to it right now?" Marshall wanted to know.

Mary shrugged, knowing she would have to be. Brandi would continue to call until she got her, and it was highly likely she wanted to discuss Scott and bawl over him too. Might as well get it over with now.

"Hey," the older sister said flatly as she answered and Marshall slid off the couch to join Sam.

"Oh Mary…" Brandi didn't even bother with a greeting and launched right in. "I really wish I'd been able to call earlier. Scott's in town…"

"I know," Mary cut her off. "He was just here."

There was an enormous, tearful huff of air from the other end of the phone that issued out of Brandi.

"Mary, I told him not to go over there."

She had?

"What?" Mary was skeptical. "Why?"

"Because he was here and he wanted to borrow money…" she shared with a swallow. "And I didn't want him going to you and asking for the same thing, especially with Sam there…"

Mary was floored her sister had managed to be this considerate, and couldn't form the words to speak before Brandi was defending herself straight out of the box.

"Mary, I _swear_ I didn't give him any."

The oddest, strangest, almost maternal pride soared from Mary's chest and it was the weirdest sensation mingling with her misery.

"I _wanted_ to…"

Okay, the pride tapered a little.

"But I just didn't think I should," Brandi rationalized. "I don't know what he's going to do with it, especially when he never paid me – well, I guess Peter – back last time, and I haven't a clue where he's been all this time…"

She sighed dramatically once more before going on.

"I feel kind of bad though," she admitted in a small voice. "I hope he's not in trouble."

Mary suspected this was exactly the case, but knew she would never get anywhere with Brandi if she didn't go completely overboard on the praise.

"Squish, you did the right thing."

Had she ever said that to Brandi before in her life?

"You can't be feeding him when you have Jesse to think about…" she reminded her. "He'll figure it out; he's got two other sisters. Much as I hate to admit it, Lauren seemed pretty together…"

"Yeah," Brandi conceded. "I know. I've kind of been wanting to see him since…" there was an awkward pause while Mary waited. "Well, since dad and everything…" she worked in. "But I didn't like it…"

And then. Because Brandi was so good at wearing emotions on her sleeve.

"I like it better when it's just us."

Mary was going to start bawling all over again, and Marshall looked up from playing with Sam to make sure she was okay. She nodded even though she still felt a little unstable and tried to respond to Brandi.

"Thanks for trying to keep him away Squish," she offered kindly, albeit thickly. "I do appreciate it."

Brandi had undoubtedly heard the tears in her voice, had known what she was doing when she'd told Scott to beat it and leave Mary alone and she wasn't deceived in the least. But she was careful with her words, careful not to let the sentiment and sap overflow and push Mary away.

"Do you and Marshall want to come over for dinner tonight?" she asked casually. "I can call mom and she can come too and hang out with the boys. That way we can…" she fumbled a little, but turned it around. "Talk or, I don't know…"

She knew Mary was not a fan of talking and she might've just spoiled everything.

"Or just eat," she hurried to rectify. "Whatever."

Oddly, this sounded pretty good to Mary. But she knew she shouldn't let Brandi, relatively new-mom and all, put herself out playing hostess, especially since she was not the best cook in the world.

"Why don't you guys just come here?" Mary found herself suggesting.

And as she watched Sam crawl into Marshall's cross-legged lap, pretending to have his battered old horse gallop up and down the pinstripes on his daddy's shirt, the tears returned for a different reason this time. It was the path the horse was taking, right over his chest, right over his heart.

"I'd rather stay here."

Her heart was here.

**A/N: I hope you'll believe me when I say that I wrote this shot WAY before I knew that Scott was going to return in some capacity or another on the show (and tomorrow, at that!) I always thought it was realistic that Mary was faced with the colder, harder truth of her father passing and her resentment toward Scott as well as his resemblance to James would give her that push. Hope it wasn't too theatrical!**


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Okay, I'll say up front that I know my posting tonight cannot possibly compare to the new episode on in just an hour, but I hope that when you need a pick-me-up after it's over you'll come give me a read! There's nothing like the real thing, though!**

XXX

_Two Years, October:_

"Go up!" Sam cried. "Go up! Go up!"

Here Mary thought he'd never talk and now she couldn't shut him up. He was jabbering and pointing like a madman, nearly knocking his jacket off, his flyaway curls tossed by the breezy afternoon. She could scarcely hold onto him and devour her funnel cake at the same time. She was going to drop one of them in a moment, and she was already mourning the loss of the powdered sugar fluffiness soon-to-be-caked in dirt.

"You're not going up," she groused, hitching the squirmy boy higher onto her hip. "Make your peace with it."

Sam paid no attention, chattering excitedly, and Marshall shot her a very dark scowl from underneath his sunglasses.

"Why did we come if he's not going up?" he asked seriously.

Mary tipped her own sunglasses to glare at him, no easy feat with both hands already occupied.

"I thought if he could see the damn things he might chill out," she grumbled. "I thought all the colors and supposed-merriment with the drumming and the noise and the fiddler crap, he might get distracted."

It appeared it was not to be. Since they'd arrived, Sam could not stop squealing skyward at the enormous, vibrant, striped figures of hot air balloons sailing serenely across the nearly cloudless blue. Mary had never, in all the time she'd been in Albuquerque, understood the appeal of the festival. There was simply no need to watch, let alone go up in one. And Sam – it was simply out of the question. He was too little.

"Mare, it's his birthday…" Marshall attempted to guilt her where they stood in their secluded patch of grass.

"His birthday was yesterday," she argued at once.

Marshall ignored the technicality, "Mom's visiting; Julian and the kids are here," he reasoned. "You don't want to make it for nothing, do you?"

He was good. Very good, actually. She'd thought in the absence of Brandi and Peter – six-months-Jesse at home with the sniffles so he couldn't even meet the brief appearance of the Mann clan – she might wiggle out of all the persuading. But Marshall had always been more willing to let Sam spread his wings. Almost literally, in this case.

Mary shifted from foot-to-foot, tossing her half-eaten funnel cake into a nearby trashcan before all of Sam's gesturing whacked it to the ground. She was grateful to be able to hide behind her sunglasses.

"He's too small…" she finally said in a low voice. "And he's too worked up…" she shook her head. "He could wiggle loose and fall right out of the thing…"

"Mary," Marshall stepped even closer, and she sensed she was in for a talking-to.

She knew it to be so when he placed his hand on her shoulder. She was realizing how chilly the air was, and she wished she'd brought a heavier jacket. She reached to zip Sam's up to avoid looking at Marshall.

"Fly birdies!" Sam articulated gleefully at his mother's touch. "Birdies and balloon!"

"You're a boy," Mary teased him, trying to sound funny but knew Marshall wasn't buying it. "Boys don't fly."

Evidently, Sam did not buy it either and continued to crane his neck at all the excitement.

"Boy fly!" he repeated. "Sam fly! Sam fly!" he even flapped his arms, his eyes huge at the balloons in the sky above.

"Mary," Marshall repeated, and now he squeezed her shoulder.

"What?" she almost snapped, but held off just a little, fixing him with her eyes.

"I talked to the guy; he said it's perfectly safe," he assured her. "If he gets too squirmy, there's a strap in the seat we can stick him in," he continued. "It'll be a cinch."

Mary did not want to back down so easily and shook her head.

"No…" she just couldn't help herself. "He can watch."

"Mary…!"

It was Marshall's turn to rein himself in, something he rarely had to do. But he'd yanked his hand off her shoulder and spun on the spot, hands to his hair in frustration. Mary was so unaccustomed to seeing him truly angry with her that she slipped the sunglasses onto her head to get a better look.

"What is your problem?" she spat, and Sam began to fidget at their raised voices.

Marshall faced her once more, but he was still visibly tense.

"He doesn't want to _watch_," he informed her through gritted teeth. "He's wants to go up there – he wants to try! Let him try!" he pleaded. "He _wants_ to!"

"Marshall, he's two years old!" now she was trying not to scream so passerby would not stare. "He doesn't get to decide! I do!"

"I'm his father," Marshall was much closer now; she was surprised to see how rigid his jaw was. "Aren't I?"

The question made Mary very uncomfortable when you considered logistics, but she did her best to skate over it.

"Yes…" she managed in a shameful voice.

"So I don't get a say?" he wanted to know. "_You're_ scared, so it's out?"

Mary hadn't meant for things to go like this at all. But deep down, she'd never intended to let Sam fly in the hot air balloon and she'd known it was wrong to deceive Marshall into thinking she might. At least a portion of his family had come all this way just for Sam's birthday, and she was going to be responsible for ruining the whole thing if she continued to be so stubborn. She was trying to work out how much she cared.

But she cared about Marshall. She cared that he was this irate, despite attempting to deny it.

"He could get hurt," she finally said, somewhat reasonably.

"You let him ride a horse," Marshall reminded her with a sigh. "And he loved that."

"He was on the ground!" she protested. "And you were with him! And I didn't know what the hell I was thinking – I'd just lost my father…!"

She shut herself up a little too late, face falling, the sun warm on her neck but the breeze cool on her cheeks. Sam was getting extremely restless and was beginning to whine; now not sure what was going on or what he wanted.

"Mama…mama…" he bleated in Mary's ear over the silence. "Wa-wa…?" his word for water. "Want wa-wa…mama…"

He'd only recently graduated to sippy cups, and seemed very liberated by the whole thing, but Mary didn't care enough about appeasing him to delve into the diaper bag at the moment.

"Not now, bud…" she smoothed his hair in hopes that he would quiet. "Later."

She sighed as she looked at Marshall. She had to admire his ability to want Sam to take risks. And she had to question her ability to shoot that theory down when she and Marshall himself took a wide variety of perils every single day.

"Mary…" he said for the fourth time. "He's not going to be little forever. He'll be old enough to decide for himself, and I think it's only fair that we let him try when he's still too young to know what he wants and what he doesn't," he whispered. "He trusts us to give him that chance."

Before Mary could open her mouth to respond to this logic, she saw the figures of Carolyn and Julian in the distance. Claire was bolting ahead of them holding cotton candy on a stick, her strawberry hair flying behind her like a flag in the wind. Daniel jogged close behind with his own cotton candy, savoring each bite. Griffin and the rest of the crowd had-had to remain in Kansas, unable to spare the time.

"Uncle Marshall!" Claire cried as she skidded to a halt. "Daddy let me and Daniel get a cotton candy!" the six-year-old proclaimed.

"I can see that," Marshall turned it right on. "You know that all cotton candy is actually white, and they add food coloring to match its flavoring. In countries like Great Britain, it's sold under the name candy floss, or even fairy floss."

Mary rolled her eyes at this, but Claire fed him a very toothy grin and expertly ignored the lesson.

"Do you want a bite?" she offered kindly, holding out the stick to share. "It's strawberry."

"Thanks Claire Bear, but I'm good," Marshall declined politely as the rest of the party approached.

Claire shrugged, and then remembered Mary. Sam was practically revolving in her arms he was so desperate to get down, but she really didn't want to set him free and she hadn't wanted to drag the stroller along.

"Mary, can Sam have some?" her little niece posed, obviously eager to share. "I bet he'll like it."

Mary's instinct was to say no, but she didn't relish another argument with Marshall, especially with an audience. She also realized it would be a good excuse to let Sam go while giving him something to focus on at the same time.

"Yeah…" she slipped him to the grass, but kept a tight hold on his hand. "Just a little bit though…"

Claire knelt right in front of her cousin and tore off a bigger piece than Mary would have with her already sticky fingers and held it out to Sam like she was feeding goats at the zoo. Sam accepted at once, however, and mashed it mostly on his face instead of inside his mouth. This made the onlookers laugh, including Claire.

"It's good, huh Sam?" Claire asked with a vigorous nod.

"Good!" he was poking his tongue in and out like a lizard trying to get an actual taste. "Good! Care…" his word for his cousin, unable to pronounce the 'L.' "Go up!"

He had not been deterred and now wanted a flying buddy.

"Go up!"

Without further ado, he made for the gap in-between Julian's and Carolyn's legs, like he thought he could _run_ skyward. Mary would've been willing to give this a try – to just let him scamper and scuttle to the ends of the earth until he reached the depths of that forget-me-not-blue.

However, Julian was too quick for him to even get started and snatched him up.

"Whoa!" he swung him into the air and over his head airplane-style; Sam gave a mirthless squeal of delight when his uncle dug his hands into his sides. "Not so fast, you little escape-artist!"

"Is he really going up?" Claire wanted to know immediately as Julian settled Sam in his chest; he'd gone breathless in all his anticipation. "Does he get to ride?"

There was a silence while Mary continued to brood, not liking the position she was being put in with everybody watching. Daniel was staring straight at her like she was some sort of spectacle, but Marshall was sighing ever-so-quietly as he took Sam from his brother.

"I don't know cutie…" he said to his niece, and there was no mistaking the dejection. "He's still pretty little…"

He was going to give in. He was going to let Mary walk all over him for about the zillionth time. Even in the small part of her that screamed triumph and victory, she had to wonder what made him do it. Did he really love her _that_ much? To give her what she wanted every single time?

"Da-da, da-da…" Sam babbled over all the crowd noise. "Want balloon da-da…want fly…"

"I know sheriff…" Marshall kissed his hair and fed his son a sheepish look. "No…" he shook his head slowly. "No balloon."

Sam's face fell so fast it was almost comical. If not for the fact that he looked so painfully sad. Mary felt a piercing in her chest at that face – she'd never seen it on him before. He just flew into a tantrum if he was unhappy, or squealed if he was joyous. She'd never thought of him as being let down or disappointed, not when he was only – barely – two years old.

And yet, here he was. He was _sad_. And confused. After getting such a response from Marshall, he turned those gorgeous blue eyes to the next available source, which of course was Mary.

Even standing a good distance apart, it was still doing her in.

"Balloon mama?" he inquired in a tiny voice.

She turned into a puddle of mush so fast it was embarrassing. She was going to have a rough road ahead if he perfected that face as a teenager.

"Yes balloon," she nodded soundly.

Marshall about dropped him, so unexpected was the allowance, but Sam looked like he couldn't possibly have heard correctly.

"We go balloon?" he wanted to clarify.

Mary grimaced and tried to focus on Carolyn's warm, obliging smile in the background. It was helping her to take the leap, to let her child do something she was so frightened of. They'd never know until they tried.

"I guess so…" she reinforced, not exactly strongly. "We're going up."

The effect was instantaneous. Marshall laughed and blundered on to cover up Mary's nerves and Claire shrieked in excitement, which made Sam screech and caused Daniel to cover his ears in annoyance.

"We're going up, sheriff!" Marshall declared, and he made for the lines at once. "We're gonna fly with the planes and the birdies – won't that be fun?" he was bouncing Sam all over the place, jostling him on his hip and pointing out all the shapes in the sky.

Mary hung back at a slow walk as Marshall got down to business with an operator, who explained all the logistics in vivid detail. Julian had joined his brother, trying to corral Claire and Daniel was much too busy with his cotton candy to bother with the rest. This left Mary with Carolyn, who had taken to patting her arm the longer they roved around the enormous wicker basket.

"I'm sure the view is breathtaking up there," her mother-in-law made idle conversation, fingering the weaving on the wicker. "You'll have to let me know what you can see."

Mary nodded dully, and with each passing moment she was wishing she'd held on to her convictions. Why had she let Marshall guilt her into this? It was all kinds of dangerous. Something horrible and awful and ghastly was going to happen to her child and she'd have only herself to blame. Sam trusted them to keep him _safe_, not to take chances.

Evidently she was working herself up so severely she couldn't keep the words from being spoken, Marshall and the gang mostly out-of-earshot while they listened to directions.

"I don't want him to go," she croaked stupidly out of nowhere.

"I know, honey," Carolyn was very quick and rubbed her shoulder even though Mary was not looking at her. "But you and Marshall will be with him and they wouldn't let him in if they didn't think it was safe. He's a big boy now," she added on as an afterthought.

But it was this phrase that caught in Mary's conscious mind. He _was_ a big boy. He was too big too fast.

"He's only two…" she found herself saying as she turned to Carolyn, whose calm face was uncannily like her son's. "He's just two years old…"

Hadn't it been yesterday Marshall had told her skin-to-skin was warmest as he lay brand new on her chest?

"He's growing up, Mary…" Carolyn reasoned. "I know it can hit you at the most bizarre times…"

"It's not hitting…" Mary didn't know what to say now. "I'm not…" she shook her head, wanting to get at least something coherent out. "I'm fine," she finally settled on. "I'm fine."

She shook her head a second time, blinking trying to clear her focus. Carolyn accepted this at face value just as Marshall beckoned with his hand, waving Mary over to the step that would lead them into the basket. Sam was chattering a mile a minute, unable to decide where he wanted to look – up into the clouds, into the hatch where he'd reside, at his mother or father or sticks of cotton candy.

Blindly, Mary left Carolyn and joined Marshall and a scruffy bearded man who was running the contraption.

"We're all set, babe…" he said. "You coming?"

Of course she was coming. He didn't really expect her to leave Sam alone after having agreed to this, did he?

"Yes…" her throat was dry. It tasted like stale powdered-sugar and funnel cake as though it hadn't gone down all the way; she knew she should've gotten a drink to go along.

Marshall's blue eyes were twinkling as he held tight onto Sam and he was giving her an unbendable smile. He understood where she was coming from, but he'd made his choice. They weren't backing down now.

"Just the three of you then?" scruffy-beard drawled as he pulled open the hatch to let them inside.

"Looks like it," Marshall told him, already stepping up, whispering sweetly to his son as Mary followed.

"Well, you've got room for one more," the man offered. "Any of your tourist buddies want to take the bird's-eye view?" he nodded at Carolyn, Julian, and the kids.

Mary, even as she assessed the space – which was not very big at all – and the supposed straps that were going to be used if Sam threatened to topple out at ten thousand feet, knew who was going to try and accompany them on their journey.

"Daddy, can I go?" Claire bounced up and down like a jackrabbit, thrusting her half-eaten cotton candy into his unsuspecting hands like he'd already said yes.

Julian looked a little bit skeptical, but exchanged a quick glance with Marshall. He paused in his chat with Sam to nod, indicating he would watch out for her.

"Are you sure, sweet pea?" Julian asked his daughter.

"I'm sure!" she declared at once, beaming brighter than the massive sun above.

"Really-_really_ sure?" Julian wasn't going to be baited; Mary had never seen him act more like a dad. "Because you're not going to be able to come down once you're up," he warned. "I don't want to hear of you getting scared and begging to get down."

And yet Mary knew, even if this were to happen, that Julian would cut her the slack. Nobody liked seeing their children frightened.

"I won't!" Claire assured him. "I really-really won't! I want to go!" she reinforced. "Please?" she clasped her hands in front of her chest and crouched on her haunches like some figurine of a praying, porcelain doll.

Before Julian could respond, Sam had obviously caught a word he knew in Claire's beseeching her case.

"Peas!" he shouted at her politeness.

He did actually mean the manners version, not the vegetable, but as demonstrated earlier his 'L' sound could use some work. Marshall chuckled and rubbed his back so his son would not do anymore swaying of their guests.

Julian sighed and held up his hands in defeat.

"If you're _really_ sure, Claire," he repeated. "Hop in…"

Claire was already making a mad dash for the basket in her excitement, not listening to any more of Julian's instructions, of which there happened to be a great many.

"You listen to Mary and Marshall…" he began. "And don't try to hold Sam, and don't lean too far over the side…"

Marshall started to laugh, but Mary found she had never appreciated Julian more. If Sam could've understood her, she'd have been saying all that and more.

"Julian, she's in good hands," Marshall promised. "We'll keep an eye on her."

"Your boy could come too…" their operator suddenly articulated even as he shut the tiny swinging door that had allowed them admittance. "These kids don't attribute much to the overall weight and don't take up as much room…"

"Daniel, what do you think?" Julian appealed to his son, bending slightly to catch his eye.

It was plain, to Mary at least, that Daniel was uninterested, a point he proved when he shook his head. See, why couldn't Sam be like that?

"Mom, you want to get onboard; do a little sight-seeing?" Marshall teased.

Carolyn gave a very disbelieving laugh as she shook her head.

"I don't think so, dear."

With that, their handler quit trying to load more eggs into their very-literal basket, leaving the four of them alone; Julian and Carolyn waving from their sanctuary still in the grass. Mary's heart was beginning to pound so fiercely she thought certain she might have a stroke. She had never kept such a close watch on Sam – every gesture of his arms, every blink of his eyes, every word that came out of his mouth, she thought sure this must be the one that would send him over the edge.

Claire had her fingers curled around the perimeter of the basket, her reddish-blonde hair shining in the sunlight. Her freckles danced across her nose and she nearly did the same thing in the basket, jittering all over the place while Mary just stood there not knowing how much longer she could reel herself in.

"Uncle Marshall!" she burst, blundering to where he was stationed. "Will we be able to see your house from up here?"

Marshall chuckled and was honest, "We might see it, but we probably won't _know_ we're seeing it," he decided. "We'll be too high."

"We should fly over Brandi's house and wave to Jesse!" Claire stated boldly. "Since he missed it!"

Mary about fell over while they were talking as she heard the burners rev up, and had to throw out a hand to the bench to steady herself. Marshall finally noticed what a tizzy she was working herself into and turned around.

"You all right over there?"

No; she was not all right at all. She was sending her son to his death sentence.

"Up-up! So high, so high!"

You sure wouldn't know it.

"Mary, you're not scared are you?" Claire asked kindly, her big eyes very round and concerned, just as the basket began to lift off the ground.

Mary shook her head, not knowing how else to answer. Both she and Marshall were staring at her like she had some sort of disease. Sam was paying no attention, but she was determined to fix that. If she was going to do this, it was going to be on her terms.

"Give him to me," she demanded, a little more harshly than originally intended.

She stuck out her arms and Marshall looked a little bewildered but resolved to do as asked and passed his son over. Mary was forced to step to the basket's edge to do this, something she didn't relish at all.

"Let's let you fly with mama…" Marshall told the boy as he squirmed because he wasn't getting a good look. "She's a tad nervous…"

Mary chose not to respond, but having Sam closer was much-much better. Her pulse was slowing down, and she could feel the chilly breeze once more. Sam was appropriately fidgety for the circumstances, but probably more so since Mary had both arms wound around his back, plastering him inside her chest so there was no chance he could escape.

"We're going up!" Claire shrieked from around her navel. "See Sam?" she flashed her gaze to her cousin's, her eyes bright. "Say bye-bye ground…"

And the little girl actually waved at the grass, which was fast-becoming smaller and smaller.

"Bye-bye g'wound!" Sam gurgled in repetition, unfortunately unable to work his fingers out of Mary's iron grip.

The first shock came when they were only about ten feet up; there was a roar from the burners below, and although it did not lift them significantly faster, the sound was deafening and Mary hadn't been expecting it. She stumbled backward right into Marshall.

"Sweet Jesus…" she breathed as she stuttered, landing clumsily in Marshall's arms.

It was a blur for moment while Claire ignored them, they rose higher and higher, and Mary fought to hang onto Sam even though he'd barely moved.

"Loud…" he whimpered just slightly. "Loud…" he sounded tearful and Mary was fully-prepared to tell them to get them down now or she'd sue, but rational Marshall stopped her.

"It's okay…" he stroked Sam's hair to keep him from losing it. "It's okay; it's just helping us get up…" he told his son. "It's not scary; it won't hurt you…"

Sam swallowed a few times with a few more fearful glances, but protested no further. He twitched and jiggled, whining not at the noise anymore, but at his mother's choking grasp. Marshall opted to alleviate this slightly.

"Mare, ease up a little…" he touched her arm to prompt her to recoil. "He's uncomfortable and he'll relax if you do…"

This sounded familiar and Marshall obviously realized it.

"Remember?" he teased with a kind smile, hoping this would break her open.

Reluctantly – very reluctantly – Mary calmed her digging nails and allowed Sam to breathe a little more freely, cautiously stepping back to the edge of the basket where Claire was perched on the ledge. It took a few minutes as they continued to ascend through the fairgrounds, not seeing much but people growing tinier and tinier.

But then, before Mary was ready, they emerged out of the treetops and into the clear blue sky, wisps of cloud reminiscent of cotton candy so close she felt sure she could reach out and touch one if she really wanted to. Not that she needed to give Sam any ideas.

Gazing out at the expanse that lay ahead, she saw nothing but an endless, eternal road. A bright cerulean vastness with no beginning and no end. You were so far away and yet so near all at the same time.

"Wow…" Claire exhaled from below her; Marshall had kneeled to gaze with his niece at the rim.

Their eyes were on the ground, Claire poking her finger at all that lay below; the tiny specks that were people, the minuscule matchbox cars that were automobiles.

"It's like everybody's ants!" she shrieked. "They're so little! I can't tell which one's daddy or grandma or Daniel!"

Marshall laughed, "I surely can't either, Claire Bear," he shook his head. "It's amazing, isn't it?"

That word – amazing – was the one that reminded Mary why they were here. It was not for the spectacular view, for the path that stretched to nowhere; it certainly wasn't for the blasting burners and the draft that became cooler with every rising inch. It was for Sam.

When she looked at his face next to her own, he was mesmerized. All of his excitement was gone, but his mouth was open part-way in obvious wonder, eyes darting in all directions, nary a word to say. He'd gone speechless.

Mary found that a smile had worked onto her face as she shuffled away from Marshall and Claire to the other end of the basket. Her son's soft, flyaway curls were lifted every few moments with the wind and his ears were a little bit red. But when they reached their own side, she finally spoke.

"What do you think, Smush?"

Sam did not appear capable of articulating. He pointed, but Mary wasn't sure at what.

"What do you see, bud?" she whispered.

Mary couldn't help thinking how many things resided this high that Sam did not know the words to – cloud, sky, sun. He wouldn't know what any of those things were. They were simply…_up_. Or they had been, until now.

He blinked slowly and finally chanced a glance below. Mary thought this might be a mistake, but the view of everything so distant beneath was evidently what caused him to finally say something.

"Oh…" he breathed, his mouth forming into a perfect, rounded circle. And then, "Far…"

"It's very far," Mary nodded, still keeping her voice down.

Unfortunately, the operator chose this moment to boost their burners again and Sam fussed as the sound died off.

"Shh…" Mary rubbed circles onto his belly and kissed his temple. "You're all right…"

To get his mind off it, she opened up a little more.

"Sam, see those white things?" she asked him, pointing with her long index finger. "That's called a cloud," she dictated distinctly. "Can you say that? Cloud?"

"C'owed."

Close enough.

"That's right; cloud," Mary told him. "It's where rain comes from."

Now he clued in and nodded in a very certain way.

"Wet."

Her child was brilliant. Dare anyone to say otherwise.

"You got it," she praised.

A sharp, briefly bitter gust of wind swept through the trees then, and carried to their balloon. Mary internally panicked, but it only caused the slightest sway and they were blown nowhere near off course – merely made to have goosebumps and Sam actually, miraculously, _laughed_.

"Cold…" he giggled, burrowing into the softness and warmth of Mary's jacket. "Cold…" he repeated.

"No kidding," she gave an involuntary shudder but rubbed his arms rapidly so he would not get too chilly. She knew the temperature had dropped slightly with the altitude, and she reached to zip his jacket but then remembered she'd done so already.

"Mama…?" he turned to face her, and Mary never got tired of hearing him say her name.

"Yes Sam?" she coaxed when he didn't continue.

She could've sworn he was _studying_ her with the look in his huge blue eyes. Trying to get her number, trying to figure her out. She wondered if he ever would. For that matter, if _she_ would ever get the same from him.

"Mama, fun?"

She could hear Carolyn in her head.

_Bless his heart_.

He wanted to know if she was having fun. Her. Two years old. Somewhere deep down, he'd known his mother had been worried.

Tears she knew would not fall remained just behind her eyes when she felt Marshall's hand on her back. She didn't have to turn around to know that he was smiling, that he'd been watching the whole time.

"Yes Sam…" she repeated without the question on the end.

She let one hand float off from supporting him and waited for Marshall to take it, which he did at once and squeezed in acceptance.

"Lots and lots of fun…"

She pecked three kisses on to his rosy pink cheeks, marveling in him being _just_ two years old. Maybe if they stayed up here, dipping through clouds and sunshine, he wouldn't grow any older. He'd stay perpetually small. Forever.

"Happy birthday, Smush."

**A/N: I went for a sweeter side this time. And from this point on, Sam's age goes in yearly increments rather than the six month (give or take) shifts. But beyond year four, the chapters get super long!**

**Anyway, enjoy the show tonight! Can't wait!**


	13. Chaper 13

**A/N: Okay so, last night's episode completely and utterly blew me away. Nobody, but nobody, does it like Mary McCormack. How brilliant was she? **

**Well, I can't help feeling my version of events hold quite lackluster in comparison to the real thing, but I hope you'll stick with me anyway!**

XXX

_Three Years, January:_

Marshall was pretty sure he knew what he was hearing, but it still perplexed him. It was one in the morning and Sam had regularly become a heavy sleeper through the night. He knew he was an extremely fortunate man to have a child of only three years that habitually handled a good stretch through the evening, and he only had Mary to thank for it. She was the one who had cracked down hard in the last year getting Sam to sleep in his own room and even though he'd wailed for the first two months, it had been worth it.

Therefore, Marshall was bewildered trying to figure out why it sounded like his boy was whimpering from his room down the hall. He tossed and turned for a minute or two, the space of bed next to him empty. Mary was, hopefully, on the road back to Albuquerque having dealt with testimony and transport the last two days. She was scheduled to be home around three, at which point she would crash and Marshall would go to the office in the morning.

Deciding that something must have Sam out-of-sorts, he resigned himself to getting out of bed to investigate what the problem was. Once at his door, he eased it open where it gave its telltale creak and threw the toddler's room into the dim light from the hall.

"Sam…?" he whispered on the threshold. "Are you okay pal?"

His little voice floated miserably across the room, tears evident but completely calm. Although he was obviously crying, he behaved as though nothing was wrong.

"I hurt," he murmured softly, only his eyes visible behind the covers of the comforter.

"You hurt?" Marshall stepped inside fully, shutting the door part-way behind him as he strode over to the bed.

Unfortunately, the minute he took a seat on the mattress, a most unpleasant smell met his nostrils. Treading lightly now to make sure he wasn't going to land in anything unwelcome, his eyes scanned the rug and found just as he suspected.

"What hurts?" he asked quietly just to make sure, his son still burrowed far beneath his blankets. "Your tummy?"

Sam nodded, still refusing to come out from beneath the sheets. If Marshall hadn't known better, he'd swear he was hiding something.

"Looks like you got sick," Marshall observed, trying not to let his eyes stray to the mess on the floor. "Do you not feel good?"

Marshall reached out and put his palm to Sam's forehead – luckily the one part of him that was still visible and found that his flesh was hot to the touch. Although it was dark and the shadows pressed in on them, he could see that he was sweating; little beads were appearing on his brow. It also seemed the rest of him was not as warm as his skin, which explained the huddling.

"I cold," he said in a small voice, as though reading Marshall's mind.

"I can see that," Marshall mused casually. There was a more pressing matter on his mind, however, and he decided to ask the little one, "Why didn't you come get me?"

He shifted uncomfortably, and Marshall wondered vaguely if maybe he wasn't done being sick and knew he needed to pick things up and get him to the bathroom.

"Mama no bed," was his answer, which made Marshall sigh right on cue.

And here he thought it had been an advantage schooling him on the need to sleep in his own room. Evidently, they'd taken it too far.

"Sam, I know mama says you can't sleep in our bed but if you feel bad or something hurts, you can come in," he explained swiftly. "That's different. Mama wouldn't want you in here by yourself when you're sick."

Sam nodded again as though he understood. Meanwhile, Marshall was trying to figure out how to get him out of his bed when he was having chills. It wouldn't make him happy having to leave the shelter of the sheets and blankets that were keeping him heated. He also needed to clean up at some point or the stench was going to get overwhelming. At least Sam had managed to throw up on the floor rather than on himself; his aim was good.

"I make mess," Sam's eyes flicked to the rug and back again, once more as though he had read Marshall's mind.

"Ah, that's okay sheriff," Marshall put his hand to Sam's chest and rubbed it lightly to show he was sincere. "We can fix it."

The three-year-old shut his lids then, snuggling deeper into his pillows, still shifting the edge of his comforter around his chin. Marshall let his hand crawl to his son's hair and brushed it away from his forehead, still feeling the heat radiate from his flesh. There was no question that he had a fever.

"I'm gonna get you something to drink Sam," Marshall whispered. "I'll be right back, okay?"

Sam didn't respond, so Marshall assumed it was okay to go ahead with this plan although he wondered if his son's stomach had settled down enough to handle some water. Doing his best to avoid the puddle of sick that he sincerely hoped he would be able to dispose of soon, he exited and made his way into the kitchen.

He'd already filled Sam's treasured plastic cup in the shape of a giraffe with liquid and was rooting around in a drawer looking for the thermometer when he heard Sam call for him. He sounded distressed, but also pinched like he was holding off.

"Daddy…!" his tiny timbre was heartbreaking. "Daddy, I sick!"

Not again. But maybe he'd hung on – maybe it was a warning. Marshall left the water and three drawers open as he dashed back down the hall.

"I'm coming!"

Crashing back through the door, he ascertained there had been no second round but Sam was sitting up and looking green even in the dim light from the hall. Marshall yanked the blankets away from him – where he immediately shivered – and swung him into his arms.

"Hang tight sheriff…" he instructed, his son practically thrown over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes as he scurried to the bathroom.

Marshall immediately deposited him on the floor and hit the lights so they could see what they were doing. Something highly intelligent must've been programmed into Sam because he stumbled straight to the toilet – almost exactly his height – and hit his mark.

The sound – not to mention the sight – made Marshall faintly ill himself, but like any dad worth his salt he swallowed his feelings and rubbed Sam's back until he finished coughing into the bowl.

When he emerged, he was most definitely crying – and not in the concise way he had been before either. Tiny trickles of tears accompanied with whimpers made him a very sad spectacle.

"Don't cry Sam," Marshall said sagely as he stood on his knees beside him, trying to pull him into a sort of sideways hug. "Just a little projectile vomiting. No big deal. Happens to the best of us."

Marshall often used a wide vocabulary with Sam in hopes that it would seep into his subconscious and serve him well down the road.

"Don't like…" the little boy shook his head, his tears flying. "I don't like sick…"

"No, it's no fun," Marshall would've laughed at the simplicity of the statement if Sam weren't so miserable.

As it was, he managed to successfully pull him into his arms, their heads resting side-by-side as they both sunk onto the floor completely. Feeling Sam's body pressed with his, he noticed that his pajamas were sticky with sweat, the flannel pasted onto his skin. The pair he had on were bright green with golden lions printed on them.

"Your tummy still hurt?" Marshall asked eventually as Sam slumped into him, head in his chest.

Sam nodded pitifully, clearly fearful of expelling anything else, and evidently there was something else on his mind as well.

"Where mama?" he asked, the thought making him cry harder. "I want mama."

Marshall wished he'd had a video camera – again, if Sam hadn't been such a wreck. It would've made Mary so happy to hear him ask for her, something he hardly ever did. When push came to shove, when the cards were on the line, mama beat all. He could not forget to tell her.

"Mama went on a trip, remember?" Marshall said gently, rubbing Sam's hair. "But she'll be back really soon. She'll take care of you tomorrow when I go to work."

Sam nodded, as though at least part of this explanation were sufficient – the part that included Mary taking care of him when he wasn't well. Still, it didn't absolve everything.

"Miss mama," he finished in a sweet voice.

It was Marshall's turn to nod, "I miss mama too."

Sam copied his father's movements, nodding and sniffling and looking completely despondent, now with tears and snot to add to his problems. Eventually, Marshall scooped him off his knees and into his lap, cross-legged on the bathroom floor.

The man sensed they were not completely out of the woods, judging by no request from Sam to go back to bed, and it appeared his instincts were right on the money. Five minutes later, it happened again.

"Daddy…" a sad and choking whimper sounded below him. "Daddy…daddy…!" more urgent now.

"What is it, bud?"

And yet, Marshall didn't have a clue why he was asking because Sam was already unfolding himself and trying to scramble out of Marshall's crossed legs in time to hit the toilet.

"No more…" he cried even as he stood, turning more ashen with each second. "No more…"

Too late. Marshall's long and gentle fingers guided Sam's head back around just in time for him not to lose his dinner and everything else all over the floor for the third round. He stroked Sam's soft hair as he retched, having to arch his back and nudge him forward so nothing would land on the seat.

He took care to flush before tending to Sam, whose sobs returned in full force the minute he was through. His face had reddened dramatically, droplets streaming in a rather rushing fashion.

"It's all done…" Marshall assured him brightly, feigning enthusiasm and throwing up his hands. "It's all gone!"

Sam didn't buy it.

"Mama…" he wept, even as he collapsed into Marshall's waiting arms, his speech muffled against his father's pajama top. "Daddy, I want drink…" barely disguisable with his face buried.

"You want a drink?" Marshall questioned, trying to pull himself free so he could understand. "Are you thirsty?"

His son mopped at his eyes outside of Marshall's embrace and nodded, "Thirsty."

"Let's hope you can keep something down…" he mused, pulling Sam from the ground and onto his hip.

His boy wiggled and squirmed in every direction trying to find the most heated spot in Marshall's chest, even in the half-second it took Marshall to set him on the counter beside the sink. The little one pressed his palms into his eyes, hiding and withdrawn, making the lids even more bloodshot. Marshall filled a paper cup from under the sink, neglecting that he'd already had one waiting in the kitchen.

"Sam, look here…" his father instructed, and his son obeyed.

Carefully, he offered him the cup but was cautious to keep his own fingers curled around the sides so Sam did not have a full grip.

"Take a _little_ sip…" he emphasized. "Really little – tiny."

Sam tried to yank the water to try for himself, but Marshall held firm.

"Let me help," he whispered. "Drink slow, okay?"

Seeing that his father was not to be baited, Sam followed the directions and sipped warily from the edge under Marshall's watchful eye.

"There's a good boy…" he praised, letting him drink a little more the further he got to the bottom. "Nice and slow."

Sam finished in due time, legs dangling and heels knocking into the cabinets below. Marshall tossed the cup into the trash and swept his hair back again, giving him more insight into just how warm his sheriff was. It was certainly nothing to rush to the hospital for, but he couldn't help wishing he could trade places with him. He was so little, and so sick for someone so small.

"How's your belly, man?" Marshall asked for what felt like the fifth time. "Still feel funny?"

Sam shrugged, dejected and confused and almost let himself fall off the counter trying to reach his dad again, groping and stretching to put his arms around him.

"Aw…" Marshall chuckled, caressing his back, recalling him to his sweaty pajamas, so close to the counter to hang on to his son that his knees were cutting into the edge of the sink. "You'll be okay, Sam. Don't worry, bud."

But Sam was becoming breathless as he succumbed to the cries, letting himself get all worked up about the illness. Marshall wanted to let go of him – and not just because they were engaged in a less-than-comfortable hug all stretched from the counter – but so he could give advice.

"Take a deep breath, sheriff…" were his instructions. "Always better to breathe."

"Don't know how…" Sam blubbered, dripping snot on Marshall's shirt.

"Yes, you do," Marshall tried not to laugh, and it only partially worked.

Forced to step back, he placed both his hands on Sam's shoulders, feeling through his bones how shaky he'd gotten.

"Watch me," he squeezed lightly, balanced in his direction just like always.

Sam reluctantly looked up, eyes watery and cheeks pink; his hair sticking up in the back from his pillow. Marshall gave a very exaggerated exhale, making sure Sam could see his chest rise and fall and making a lot of excess noise in the puff of air to get the message across.

"You can do that," Marshall assured him. "Show me."

It was his way to get him calmed down. Absurdly, it took him back to Mary's labor with Sam and how he had believed adamantly through all nine hours that the breathing would help her keep a level head and, more importantly, help her to feel like she was in control.

Sam's attempt was very wobbly and almost comically high-pitched, but Marshall was ready to congratulate like he'd run a marathon.

"Good boy…" he soothed, something he said often and for the second time tonight. Patting Sam's back, "That's my guy. Calm and cool, my friend."

It was Marshall's turn to sweep Sam into his long and lanky arms, running his palm over the side of his face while his profile rested in his chest. To Marshall's dismay, he was still trembling.

As the minutes passed on and Sam became still more shivery no matter how Marshall tried to shelter him, he eventually decided they could leave the bathroom because it appeared his son's heaving spells were over. He was in a very odd pattern of hiccupping and shuddering, trying to burrow like a gopher against Marshall he was so cold.

"Come on pal…" Marshall unwound his son and hoisted Sam back into his arms. "Let's go lie down."

Not willing to put him back in his bed when he hadn't had a chance to clean up the mess on the floor, Marshall took him out to the living room, leaving only the light in the kitchen on, casting them in semi-darkness.

"Get comfy, all right?" Marshall advised, settling him in the chair on the short end of the coffee table, but Sam was already closing his eyes. "Daddy will get you a blanket."

Marshall didn't often refer to himself in third person when speaking to Sam, but something about the phrase had slipped. He had never quite figured out how he had become daddy and Mary had not become mommy, but mama – just mama. She'd been mama since he could speak.

"I cold…" Sam murmured for the second time, refusing to open his eyes.

"Here you go sheriff…" Marshall pulled the throw from the back of the couch and covered Sam with it, all curled up in a ball against the back of the chair. "You warm up."

Marshall knew he couldn't give him too many covers, that once his fever broke he would really start sweating and become too hot and uncomfortable. He also knew he should change his pajamas but he was clearly freezing and Marshall couldn't put him through that.

Seeing that Sam was safe momentarily, he ventured back to the kitchen to find the thermometer. He eventually unearthed it, buried at the back of a drawer containing a smattering of used sticky notes and old yellow pencils with the tips broken off. He also made a mental note to ask Mary what she thought she was doing, keeping it in such an obscure place.

Sitting at the edge of the coffee table, he put his hand on Sam's bent knee to recall his glance.

"Sam, look at me for a second…" he whispered.

Slowly, blearily, his eyes flickered open, just tiny slits in his flushed face.

If it had been up to Marshall, he'd likely have ambushed him with the thermometer – designed to go in his ear. But Mary would've explained what she was doing first and told him the truth, even though Sam generally did not enjoy being poked in the ear. But since he'd asked for Mary, Marshall was going to do his best to give her to him.

"I'm gonna take your temperature real quick," he explained matter-of-factly. "See how sick you are. I'm gonna look in your ear to find out."

Marshall had hoped Sam might be too sick to care or even remember what taking his temperature involved, but they weren't so lucky.

"No ear…" he squirmed further into the chair, looking to be on the verge of tears again. "No ear…"

"It doesn't hurt, Sam," Marshall reminded him, but his son looked doubtful. "And I'll do it really fast."

He considered briefly, perhaps too tired to ascend into a tantrum, and Marshall took the leniency for what it was. Sam fussed and whined at being prodded, but let Marshall get at him long enough to get a reading.

"Strong fight, my man…" Marshall praised as he saw the screen flash 103.2. It was a little higher than he'd been anticipating, but nothing earth-shattering. "You did good."

Now Sam became curious as he pulled out a hand to wipe one of his eyes, "I sick?"

"You are," Marshall nodded confidently. "Sick as a dog."

The little boy smiled a soft, watery grin at this, as though he understood.

"Try to go to sleep," Marshall suggested, brushing the hair off his forehead and wiping his cheeks mingling with tears as well as sweat. "I'm going to sleep on the couch right here next to you," he promised. "Tell me if you feel sick again, okay?"

Marshall doubted this a likely possibility; Sam seemed to be settling down and drifting away into dreamland. He felt a pang of pity for his son; so ill and frightened and, above all, without his mama.

For the third time that evening, Marshall and Sam were of one mind. As the father stood and fluffed pillows to make a bed on the sofa, Sam whispered softly again.

"Daddy I sad…" he murmured, gazing hazily up at him from the chair.

"You're sad…?" Marshall questioned, sitting back down in front of him. "Why are you sad?"

"I sad 'cause I cry…" he managed hoarsely.

Marshall wasn't entirely sure he understood, but dug a little to figure it out.

"You just cried because you don't feel good, buddy," he assumed. "It's okay to cry."

Marshall often felt he said this a lot, pounded it into Sam's brain, but it appeared it wasn't having quite the affect he'd hoped after all this time because Sam spouted what Marshall knew was coming.

"Mama no cry," he whispered fearfully.

Marshall tried to smile, and part of it wasn't as forced as he'd even anticipated. Nothing got by his son. It was with this thought that he reached out and tousled his hair.

"Well, mama's a big brave girl and it takes a lot to make her cry," he admitted, still grinning. "But you can if you want to. You're still the bravest sheriff I know," he added a wink.

Something else must've caught Sam's attention, because he latched onto it, chased it, clearly held it close.

"I brave like mama?"

Marshall's smirk wasn't going away. He stood and kissed Sam's damp waves.

"You are brave _just_ like mama," he reinforced. "You're her boy. You know that."

This thought seemed to content Sam and he went quiet again, closing his eyes and burying himself under his blanket, sinking into exhaustion and drifting off to sleep.

Marshall got as comfortable as he could on the couch, not bothering to go retrieve a second blanket for himself but just relaxing into the tiny throw pillows, hoping he'd manage to get a few hours. He was going to look hung-over for Stan the next morning. Fortunately, Sam's stuffy breathing in the chair convinced him that his son was off to fantasies free of nightmares meaning the worst was over for his flu.

He was sure he'd only dozed off for about twenty minutes before the front door opened and Mary returned at a quarter past three. Even before he came to completely, he could tell she was surprised to find them zonked out in the living room.

"Hey…" she whispered, placing her tote beside the couch as Marshall sat up. "What's going on; why are you out here?"

As Marshall focused, he wondered how it was humanly possible for someone who had been traveling all day and night to look so gorgeous. Her honey-colored waves, her soft skin, the warmth she radiated when she entered a room (even if Marshall couldn't tell her so.) It was no wonder Sam wanted her.

"Can you speak or not?" Mary prodded with her usual amount of annoyance and her eyes flicked to Sam's snoozing form, "Is he okay?"

Marshall finally stood, rubbing his eyes, and answered.

"He's got a little fever."

It was not exactly little, but Marshall tended to downplay Sam's incidents in front of Mary. She was wildly protective of him, and the smallest unknown situation put her in a flurry as she tried to figure out what to do. Although this was not unprecedented – Sam had certainly been sick before.

"Why didn't you call me?" was her first response as she strode across the room and placed a gentle hand on Sam's forehead. "Jesus Marshall…" she turned her palm back-to-front as she touched his flesh. "He's burning up…" now she sounded upset.

"There wasn't anything you could do from the road," Marshall reminded her rationally. "It is not exactly life-threatening. The worst has already come and gone."

Mary adjusted the blankets around him as she listened to this, and then proceeded with her line of questioning.

"Did he puke?"

"A couple times," Marshall responded speedily.

With this remark, Mary clearly caught the scent that had not left the bedroom.

"Sorry…" Marshall muttered sheepishly, seeing the look of displeasure on her face.

"He just didn't make it to the bathroom?" Mary asked, trying to keep her voice down.

"Not the first time," Marshall said. "I didn't even know he was sick."

"Didn't he come get you?"

Marshall shook his head at this, not realizing the next inquiry this would prompt.

"Why not?"

Now he'd stuck his foot in it. He was too sleepy, in a state of delirium not to have recognized that his earlier reply would drive Mary to find out the whole story. He didn't want her to feel badly that Sam had followed her rules to the breaking point and not left his bed even with his innards spilling over.

Looking down at her, piercing her with his blue eyes, he decided on Mary's favorite answer – the unvarnished truth.

"Mama no bed," he managed.

Predictably, Mary sighed and cast the snoozing Sam a regretful glance. He knew she hadn't intended her stipulations to take them this far.

"Idiot – I'm an idiot," she decided without even looking at Marshall. "I guess it's a good thing I wasn't here; I just would've made it worse…"

This reminded him.

"Not true," he said almost buoyantly, bouncing over to stand beside her above the chair. All this earned him was a look of disdain but he pressed on. "He asked for you."

Mary plainly didn't believe him and shook her head.

"You suck at lying," she told him baldly.

Considering their professions, this should've insulted him much more severely, but it didn't.

"Scout's honor," Marshall held up the symbol. "Clear as day. 'I want mama.' Preceded by, 'Where mama?' and followed by, 'Miss mama.'"

Mary's glance definitely changed now, and she was clearly trying not to grin and dropped her stare to her son so Marshall wouldn't see. It was strange, that something that came out of an illness could please her so much.

"You should go to bed," she offered to cover up. "I'll clean up in his room and sit with him."

"Mare, you've been traveling all day; you've gotta be tired…"

"Yeah, and you've gotta go to work tomorrow," she interjected.

Unfortunately, the minute they raised their voices to normal speaking level, it caused Sam to stir. Both partners felt the guilt as he came around, not wanting to think that anything else had prompted his return to consciousness – such as another vomiting spell.

However, as he blinked and his surroundings came into focus, it was obvious only one object mattered at all. Only one stood out amongst everything that must be swirling around him – heaven's light among the clouds.

"Mama…?" he whispered, peering upwards at Mary as though to make sure he was really seeing her.

She knelt at the arm of the chair, as close to his face as she could possibly be and gave him a soft smile.

"Hi Smush."

"Mama, I sick…" he reported groggily, closing his eyes now that he'd had his confirmation that Mary was there.

"I know," she assured him, smoothing his hair across his forehead. "I missed you while I was gone."

Now Marshall smiled too.

"You have fun?" Sam asked, eyes sliding open and shut again.

Mary chuckled lightly, "Pretty sad when your sickly self beats what I got to do. I wish I'd been here."

Sam shook his head slowly, "No fun."

Marshall knew he was remembering what he'd told him earlier about illness not exactly being a picnic.

"Come here bud…" Mary decided, holding out her arms and hoping he would get the message. "Let's change your pajamas and then we'll sleep in my bed."

Marshall was astounded, but knew Mary was bolstered by Sam's having requested her, feeling lenient from his sweetness and maybe just a little guilty for not having been home. Even in his stupor, Sam couldn't forget the rules either.

"Sleep in big bed…?" he whispered, hardly daring to hope as he wiggled himself out of the chair in Mary's waiting hands.

"You bet," she said, feeling tolerant and pulling him up, standing as she did so.

He was warm – much warmer than he usually was – but shivery and she snuggled him further into her chest, wanting to keep him calm and content. He rested his head against her breast, like he'd done when he was a baby, and even as tired as Mary was, she couldn't have asked for a better greeting than this.

Marshall watched her nestle Sam close, whispering in his ear.

"What can we do tomorrow?" she asked.

Sam was too drained to answer. Marshall strongly suspected he'd already gone back to sleep, but Mary forged on, pressing her lips to his temple.

"Do you want to color?" she murmured. "Or look at the picture book?"

These were Sam's two favorite things in the world, two of the things Mary was adamantly sick of; duties she'd delegated to Marshall long ago. Sam could entertain himself forever swirling and doodling with crayons, but almost nothing topped 'the picture book' which was actually the photo album Marshall had given Mary at their first Christmas. He was gleeful every time they thumbed through it, not able to comprehend the faces of the children being his mother and father.

"Pictures…" Sam drawled unexpectedly, proving he was still awake.

"_Big_ surprise," Mary teased, shifting him higher onto her hips and patting his back.

"I'll be in after I clean up…" Marshall promised, knowing they needed to get him to bed and kissing the crown of Sam's head.

"Okay," Mary agreed. And then, to Sam, "You can help me pick some new pictures to put in there. It's been awhile; think we need an update"

"Mmm…" was their son's response. "Me mama."

"Pictures of you and mama?" Marshall asked, peering low to try and see his tunneling child. "What a great idea," he smirked at his wife, knowing how she hated having her picture taken; the ones of her and Sam were all candid's and not displayed throughout the house.

And Mary, feeling Sam against her, seeing Marshall reveling in the fact that they had forged some sort of unexpected bond, she uttered a phrase that proved just how supported she was by her son's acceptance.

"I'd like that, Smush," she whispered. "But not near as much as I'll like doing it with _you_."

**A/N: My writing for a three-year-old may be a little too 'babyish.' I'm not sure; I haven't had a lot of experience with that age group but I figure they still have some of that broken speech. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed poor sickly Sam with his daddy.**

**Review if you have a minute! Will love you if you do! XOXO**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: I confess it's possible I have fallen even more in love with Friday's episode at this point than I had when I posted last night. When it's good, it's good.**

**Thanks for the reviews; they mean a lot.**

XXX

_Four Years, March:_

Mary had a weeks-worth of paperwork strewn all over the coffee table, markings and diagrams and lines drawn in every direction – MOU's, financial forms, maps on the grid, the whole shebang. She had become fairly skilled at keeping up with her WITSEC duties in addition to Sam but this time she was doing Marshall's paperwork as well to help him get caught up. However, it wasn't easy to keep focused hearing the continual shouts and squeals from Sam's bedroom that meant he and Jesse were engaged in some battle-or-other.

"You have the might to remain silent!" she heard her well-spoken four-year-old articulate from the bedroom.

"No silent; I talk!" tiny Jesse answered in a gurgle. He'd be three in just another month.

"You don't get it," Sam sighed dramatically.

Grateful for the excuse to abandon her work, Mary stood up and strode back to the bedroom. Jesse was halfway through handcuffs and, funnily enough, Sam was trying to show him how to put them on.

"You have the _right_ to remain silent," Mary corrected without even saying hello. "Not might, right. Do you even know what that means?"

She was typically harder on Sam than on Jesse, and she didn't know why. Just seeing her nephew stand there in his too-big flannel shirt inherited from the elder cousin and a pair of baggy jeans, she couldn't help cutting him some slack. Sam could get awfully bossy on occasion.

No telling where he'd gotten _that_.

"Daddy said it once," Sam informed her promptly.

"It's nothing you need to be repeating," was Mary's stern response.

"Cuff – bad guy," Jesse chimed in unexpectedly, gesturing incoherently at the chains binding him. "Tie – outlaw."

"Yeah Jess; I know you're the outlaw," Mary cut across him, figuring this is what he meant. "The outlaw can bust his cuffs once in awhile."

"But _I'm_ the sheriff!" Sam whined. "_I_ attest _him_!"

"_Arrest_," Mary was annoyed now; she had a headache from trying to get all her work done. "Arrest, not attest. Why don't you guys play something else?"

Before Sam could argue again, there was a rapping knock on the front door. Mary sighed loudly; the last thing she needed was visitors. However, she left the boys in case it was something important and jogged quickly back through the living room to answer. The pair of cousins immediately commenced their games of make-believe; Jesse never seemed to mind being told what to do.

Thrusting the door open, Mary was shocked at the face she found on the other side. Hair in a perfect perm, stiltingly styled in an up-do, cloud of perfume almost nauseatingly strong; she couldn't even begin to form a phrase to express her astonishment at seeing this woman on her front porch.

"Hello Mary," she inclined her head almost too politely.

Mary just gaped, not sure how she would've fared with this unexpected visit some number of years before.

Eventually, the name found her tongue.

"Eleanor," once she said it, the rest came back like a glove. "What an…unpleasant surprise."

"Well Mary, unlike you when I am in the neighborhood of a former colleague, even if that colleague was not a friend…"

"That's for damn sure," Mary muttered under her breath, but she kept on.

"I _do_ make an effort to see how they are holding up," the old office manager dictated. "I _certainly_ don't expect you to return the favor."

Mary's mind, filled to the brim with the boys and her work, could not immediately think of a quick rebuttal and resolved to just step aside.

"Don't feel obligated to come in," she grumbled, looking at the floor. "I'm more than happy to leave you out, not just in the proverbial cold…"

Eleanor did step over the threshold, where Mary shut the door behind her. It had been what felt like forever since they'd seen each other; she'd left Albuquerque shortly after Mary had been shot about six years before. She had not kept up with her, not even bothered to ask Stan if he still stayed in touch. They'd just been getting into a dysfunctional groove when she'd packed up.

"What brings you to town?" Mary found herself asking as Eleanor removed her coat and tossed it over the arm of the couch.

"Had to give a few words on an inquiry over at the FBI," she replied. "I really wanted the trip to just be a total loss," she flashed Mary her telltale, impassive face.

Mary smirked obnoxiously. There was familiarity in the glance.

"I could make you some crappy tea…" Mary offered. "Lace it with something…"

Eleanor, who had been fiddling with something in the pocket of her coat, finally looked up to respond.

"I assume it's best if…"

It was clear from her face that she had not yet noticed the obvious signs of who else was now occupying this house. When she stopped midsentence, her eyes took in the plastic trucks on the floor, the stuffed horses, the swords and lassos and an overflowing toy bin in the corner. It was her turn to gape and even though she didn't smile, there was definitely amusement as she pondered how to address what she was seeing.

"Oh, Mother of God help us all…" she said in a hushed voice, clearly relishing the moment.

When identical squeals erupted from the bedroom, it provided the perfect segue.

"You have _children_?"

It was taking Mary a minute, as she scowled at her former co-worker's giddiness that she realized how much had really changed since she'd last come into contact with Eleanor. There was Marshall as well as Sam.

"Child," Mary corrected. "Singular," boring into her with her eyes.

Eleanor was about to go on when Jesse raced out, holding his wrist and looking to be on the verge of tears. He scurried right up to Mary preceded by a string of babbling, and was not followed by his best pal.

"What is it Jess?" she asked, bending down to see what all the fuss was about.

"I hurt hand – I hurt hand – Sam sheriff…" was most of what she caught as she pried his fingers loose, and there were indeed red marks around his wrist.

"Did you two fight?" Mary asked carefully, knowing Jesse would not want to give him up.

"It's like a spitting image…" she heard Eleanor breathe from above, but Mary ignored her.

"I no fight – I fight, I outlaw…" Jesse attempted to explain, but his aunt wasn't grasping. "Mary, I outlaw, but…"

"He calls you _Mary_?" Eleanor couldn't resist voicing.

"_This_ one…" Mary stood and pulled Jesse up into her arms, resting him on her hip where he immediately nuzzled into her neck. She was not accustomed to the way he burrowed into her, yearning affection all the time, and had to be careful not to stiffen. "Isn't mine," she finished.

"You're kidding; he looks just like you," Eleanor persisted, peering into Jesse's green eyes, noticing the blonde of his silky hair.

"Yeah well…" Mary began, but at that moment Sam joined the party, racing on the hardwood and skidding in his socks.

"Mama whatever Jesse said…"

And Mary didn't notice what came out of Sam's mouth next, because clearly the image of a little boy calling Mary 'mama' was more than Eleanor had ever anticipated with a casual drop-by. But it didn't really matter whether Mary heard Sam's following phrase or not, because in the presence of a guest he turned it right on. It was as though he had an internal switch. Darting up to Eleanor, he smiled in his ultra-charming way and said the next spiel all in one breath.

"Hello my name is Samuel Shannon I'm four years old what's your name it's nice to meet you."

And then he grinned again.

Mary could not stop herself from rolling her eyes, both at the way Eleanor was being taken in by the string of politeness and the fact that it existed at all. Marshall had been teaching him how to behave when he met with someone, but it was clear he had not yet grasped the concept, starting with the fact that he didn't give the other person half a second to respond.

"_This_ cannot be your child," Eleanor flashed Mary a knowing look. "He has manners."

"Ha-ha," Mary quipped, eyeing the ring around Jesse's wrist to make sure it was fading quickly. "You're okay man…" she decided. "Get down…" and she set him back on the floor without waiting for approval.

"Sam…" his mother sighed when she had Jesse safely on the ground, unsure how to correct proper etiquette.

"Daddy told me just how to talk," he informed her proudly, and Eleanor smiled once more.

"Yeah, I know…" she rubbed her temples. "But let's start with the name."

"My name is Samuel," he reminded her.

"I know," she repeated. "But does anybody call you that?"

Sam considered, finger to his chin like he was thinking hard.

"No."

"So let's just go with Sam," she suggested. "My name is Sam Shannon and I'm four years old," she said the sentence over, not even caring that Eleanor could see them. "Then you need to wait."

"For what?" he inquired curiously.

"For the person to answer," Mary went on, trying not to sound as though he should know this already. "Try it again…" she jerked her head at Eleanor. "Start over."

Sam turned and faced the new woman, who seemed more than happy to be used for politeness practice, positively thrilled with the idea of Mary teaching tactfulness to anyone.

"My name is Sam Shannon and I'm four years old; what's your…?"

"Wait – hang on…" Mary held up a hand to silence him and he snapped his gaze back to hers. "Stop after you say you're four years old. Shake her hand."

He was good at this part, and stuck out his palm, which Eleanor immediately wrung up-and-down.

"_Wait_ for her to say her name – don't ask right away," Mary instructed. "Say, 'My name is Sam Shannon and I'm four years old.'"

Uncertainly he began, "My name is Sam Shannon and I'm four years old…"

Eleanor was quick, "Hi Sam. My name is Eleanor Prince," and she offered her fingers right on cue.

"Oh!" Sam exclaimed as they were shaking. "I get it! Then I say, 'Nice to meet you!'"

"You are very intelligent," Eleanor praised and Mary considered this blatant sucking-up but chose not to comment. "Nice to meet you."

Mary was pleased Sam had figured things out and hoped he would remember everything for next time, when he completely lost all sense of decorum.

"Who are you?" he ventured just as kindly.

Eleanor laughed as Mary sighed and then remembered Jesse, who was just standing there watching all this looking somewhat left-out as usual. His aunt rumpled his hair vaguely as Eleanor responded to her son.

"Your mom and I used to work together," she explained. "A long time ago – before you were around."

Sam turned to Mary for confirmation, "Did you mama?"

Mary nodded but didn't speak, knowing it was going to be hard not to fall into the familiar pattern of insulting Eleanor with Sam around.

"Did you work with my daddy too?" Sam plowed on with his questions.

"Um…" Eleanor clearly didn't know what to say when Sam helped her out, pointing to a framed shot on the end table of Marshall and Sam horseback riding some summer or another in Kansas.

With this, Eleanor raised her eyebrows at Mary as she uncovered the last piece of the puzzle.

"I sure did."

This made Sam smile again, "You had lots of fun I bet."

Mary couldn't keep herself from scoffing, and Eleanor was having difficulty with it as well, but she grinned pleasantly at Sam and came up with a diplomatic answer.

"All kinds of it," she decided.

This inspired yet another smile from Sam as Eleanor actually picked up the framed photo to get a better look. Sam obviously saw this as a conversation piece and launched right in.

"That's me and daddy in Kansas," he shared enthusiastically.

"Oh really?" Eleanor was genial.

"Uh-huh," Sam nodded vigorously. "That's where his mama lives, but his daddy died so he doesn't live there anymore."

"Oh," Eleanor tried not to look too disheartened, but turned to Mary with a more serious look on her face. "Mary, I had no idea Seth had passed away."

"Yeah," the other woman nodded, opening up a little bit better now that Sam had started speaking for her. "A couple months before this one came along," she nodded at her son. "It was sudden – a heart attack."

Eleanor turned a little downcast at this, and Mary knew of whom she was thinking. Oddly, she wasn't worried about whatever she shared; death didn't bother Sam and Jesse, still standing mutely nearby, was too young to understand what words were coming out of their mouths.

"That's really too bad," Eleanor murmured, eyes back on the photo. "Seth couldn't have been very old."

"No…" Mary shook her head, watching Sam getting impatient now that the focus was off him. "He wasn't; it tore Marshall up for awhile."

Eleanor looked straight at her, "I can imagine."

And she could. Mary thought of John, Eleanor's late husband who had died in a car accident in his early forties. She suddenly felt a measure of compassion for her she never had when they'd worked together. Marshall constantly insisted motherhood had softened Mary and she usually denied it, but in the here and now it seemed he might be right.

"Anyway…" Eleanor shook her head and pasted the smile back on as she returned to Sam. "Do you like going to Kansas?"

"Yeah!" he declared; eyes on the photo even though he'd seen it a million times before. "We get to ride horses there!"

"You must like horses," Eleanor guessed.

The understatement of the century, Mary thought and predictably, Sam backed her up.

"I _love_ horses!" he exclaimed. "I want to take Jesse to Kansas sometime so I can teach him to ride like dad taught me how!"

Eleanor was a little bit thrown at the extra name added in, but the pieces slid quickly together as she remembered the little blonde boy at Mary's hip, tugging on her shirt which Mary was adept at ignoring.

"And is this Jesse?" Eleanor inquired, offering the shyer of the two a kind smile as he huddled behind his aunt's legs.

"Jesse, you didn't say hi!" Sam guffawed as though this were easy, Eleanor putting the picture back on the end table.

"I think he's still reeling from being cuffed," Mary joked feebly. And then to Eleanor, "Yeah. This is Jesse," she rubbed his hair so he wouldn't be so nervous in the presence of a stranger.

Eleanor obviously sensed he was much more introverted and simply smiled, Mary trying not to feel too conspicuous with all the details that were coming out. Oddly, she wanted to get rid of Sam so as to give her own version of events, so Eleanor would get the whole picture instead of these mangled portions her son was doling out.

"I want you guys to go clean up Sam's bedroom," she declared abruptly. "It's chaos…"

"Chaos?" Sam interrupted.

Damn. Marshall wasn't there to decode.

"It just means it's a mess," Mary relayed quickly. "Go clean it up and then we can have a snack with Eleanor," she was not overly interested in that last bit, but it was the best she could do.

"Okay," Sam was agreeable and took two strides to Jesse, snatching his hand to drag him along. "Come on."

"You hurt-ed my wrist," Jesse accused softly when Sam snatched it.

"I didn't mean to," Sam insisted as they made their way back. "I was just playing the game."

Eleanor chuckled as they disappeared from view and turned to Mary, clearly going to be cordial now that there were children involved. Mary was already on her way to making tea, something she knew Eleanor drank in excess; poking her head into containers to see if there were any cookies or crackers around.

"Mary…kidding aside…" the woman was saying, and Mary tensed; she didn't enjoy touchy-feely conversation with anybody other than Marshall and sometimes not even then.

She busied herself in the cabinets so she wouldn't have to look at her.

"He is _darling_."

And yet she couldn't help the pride. She paused in taking down two mugs and set them on the counter, turning slowly and offering a meager half-smile for her old co-worker.

"He's a good boy," she didn't approve of the adjective Eleanor had used, but she'd said no kidding. "So is Jesse."

"Who is he?" Eleanor asked, furrowing her brow in hopes of getting the answer. "Are they friends…?"

"They're cousins…" Mary groaned, reaching up high for the tea bags; dusty on the top shelf. "He belongs to my sister Brandi."

"_That_ explains why he looks like you," Eleanor decided. "I could've sworn he was yours."

"Yeah, we get that a lot," Mary admitted, turning the burner on while she talked. "Sam doesn't favor me."

"Well," Eleanor shrugged unconcernedly. "He favors Marshall."

And Mary tensed again. She knew Eleanor meant in looks, but that wasn't possible. It still made her strangely uncomfortable the way people thought Sam had Marshall's blue eyes and his dark hair. It was nearly unattainable for her to relay the truth with Sam anywhere around, because _he_ didn't know it himself. She couldn't chance him getting wind of it.

"Yeah…" she repeated to save face, crossing her arms over her middle as though in defense. "Kind of."

Eleanor seemed to sense she'd said something wrong, but couldn't put her finger on what. As it was, she was obviously boosted by Mary's unusually affable attitude and shifted to something else.

"I feel so badly about Seth…" she went back to that. "If I'd have known I'd have sent something."

"You don't talk to Stan anymore?" Mary inquired seriously.

It was clear she didn't, otherwise she'd have known Mary and Marshall were together.

"No," Eleanor confirmed. "Kind of…too soon after John all those years ago…" she opted to continue unnecessarily.

"Spare me the details," Mary almost interrupted a little bitterly.

The two of them went silent then, and Mary was realizing very quickly just how poor she still was at small talk. She supposed she should take some interest in Eleanor, to ask about what she was doing these days, but she couldn't think of anything along those lines. She was still feeling guarded from her assumption about Sam's resembling Marshall.

Without a word, she went to boil the water on the stove, shuffling almost soundlessly in her socks.

Eleanor finally shattered the calm.

"How long have you and Marshall been together?"

This should be an easy question. Mary turned back, leaning against the counter.

"Almost four years," she replied swiftly.

She wondered if Eleanor could unlock the rest of the mystery herself, judging by Sam's age, or if she would just think they hadn't wasted any time. Evidently, however, Mary was so absurdly eager to make the truth understood that she just kept blundering on.

"It was actually when Seth died that we…" she shrugged. "That we got closer. I flew to Kansas to be with him…" she couldn't stop. "I guess I was about…" she swept her hair off her forehead, raking her fingers through it with the recollection. "About six months pregnant by that time – with Sam."

There. She'd said it. Now she'd see if Eleanor picked up on it. She didn't know why this was so important to be made known. Why was she desperate to make passerby understand even what her son didn't? Was it because no matter how happy she might envision herself, it was far from perfect and it was essential to look for danger behind every corner?

"Already?" Eleanor finally said, getting near it.

Maybe Mary was afraid of the taunting, of the implication that she slept around and had called Marshall to pick up the pieces. Could that be why? If it was, she might as well just say it and let Eleanor have free reign.

"Sam's actually my ex-husband's," she said in a very low voice. "He was okay with us raising Sam together – but Sam doesn't know."

She should've added, 'Get your shots in' but she didn't. Eleanor was resolutely calm.

"Why are you telling me?" she asked, somewhat amused.

Mary shrugged, but she felt a little less confined now that she had.

"God knows," she jeered. "So you don't get the word on the street?"

Eleanor chuckled, obviously endeared by the change that had overcome Mary since motherhood and Marshall. She couldn't fault her for being honest, even if the honesty revealed the less-attractive aspects of alterations. Mary suddenly knew she wasn't going to tease and a strange part of her missed it.

"You ever _going_ to tell him?" was her only comment.

Mary tried not to be affronted, but put the look on the best way she knew how.

"Someday," she shrugged. "Probably. When he's older. There's nothing to gain from telling him now."

Her heart leapt into her throat hearing the footsteps and she almost scattered the boiling water as Sam pounded back in, Jesse in tow.

"Telling me _what_?" he demanded with a mischievous grin, assuming he was the topic of conversation just like always.

Mary was about to combust, but for the first time in her life, she was grateful for Eleanor.

"That when _your_ mom and I worked together…" she cut in swiftly, taking Sam's hand and leading him to the table in an almost grandmotherly way. "She used to drive me _insane_."

Sam laughed, used to this opinion about his mother. Mary rolled her eyes, and then noticed Jesse peering out from behind the counter, refusing to join.

"Jess, come on…" she beckoned with her hand.

Seeing that he was not on his way, she walked over and kneeled in front of him, whispering secretively.

"I don't like strangers either," she told the two-year-old. "But Eleanor's pretty safe. For the most part," she winked and Jesse tried to smile.

"I sit with you?" he asked quietly, cautiously.

"On my lap?" she wanted to know. "At the table?"

Jesse nodded. Although Mary didn't usually enjoy much clinging and hugging, she'd go the extra mile for Jesse.

"Sure," she agreed, and she swung him up and into her arms, hearing Eleanor and Sam chatting like old friends at the table.

"Mama…" he was totally cracking up as he looked at her approach with Jesse. "You stapled _all_ the folders shut?" he asked in disbelief. "Why couldn't you tell me _that_ until now?" he reflected over the phrase he'd overheard.

Mary sat down with them, thinking and resting her chin on Jesse's head.

"Because I didn't want you to know how outrageous I really am."

**A/N: Kind of a…well, let's not say 'boring' chapter, but less exciting. And no Marshall, which probably doesn't do much for some of you. But fear not; they are hearty in length from here.**


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: Thank-you again for reviewing! This is a long one, but it needs to be. It's also one of my personal favorites.**

XXX

_Five Years, June:_

"What'd you say lightning is?" Jesse asked as he pressed his nose against Mary's front window, Sam doing the same at his side.

Brandi came up behind the boys and patted her son's back.

"We pretend its God taking pictures," she teased him, kneeling to get a good look at the storm herself.

Sam shook his head slowly without a smile, eyes not meeting his aunt's.

"You don't think so Sammy?" Brandi prompted this gesture.

Sam did not respond, eyes round and fixated on the bedlam that raged beyond the safety of the panes of glass. A torrential downpour had commenced across Albuquerque, drenching Mary's front lawn, what resembled a babbling brook surging down the street. Lightning snaked and flashed impressively every few seconds, followed by deep, booming rumbles of thunder.

New Mexico might not have been known for its rainfall, but this June thundershower was certainly the most remarkable the boys had seen in their lifetime.

"Sammy?" Brandi nudged when her nephew didn't respond or look at either of them. "What do you think lightning is?"

Not without a pause, Sam finally shifted to see Brandi and Jesse, his blue eyes darker and more haunted even being lit by the forks outside the window.

"It's an electrical charge," he murmured slowly, trying to get the words out just right.

Brandi smiled lovingly. Three months away from kindergarten and listen to him.

"Dad says," he stated seriously. "But it's a light. The raindrops like to race each other and the lightning helps them see in the dark."

Another adoring smile from his aunt as she wrapped her arms around Jesse, resting her chin on his shoulder. But even as she grinned, Sam did not crack and stayed resolutely still. Brandi appreciated his imagination in this moment and had a shrewd idea where it had come from.

"Mary told him that story," she whispered to her son, not addressing Sam directly.

Jesse nodded and on cue, the lights flickered overhead. Both boys glanced skyward, Jesse curiously, Sam a little apprehensively. They were in his house, but without his parents. Peter and Brandi had set up camp with the two boys since the morning, Mary and Marshall on assignment. Brandi knew better than to ask at this point, but she wished one or the other or both would call. Sam was clearly getting a little bit nervous; twilight had fallen fast and the storm was getting worse.

"Don't worry," she said reassuringly. "It's no big deal if we lose power. There's lots to do."

This was not entirely true, considering the boys' dependence on electronics and Mary's aversion to board games, but they'd wrangle something. Peter was busy flipping through channels, trying to get a decent read on when the rain was supposed to blow through.

"You boys didn't finish dinner," Brandi went on, reaching to stick her finger in Sam's chest. "Too busy getting up to look out the window," she said. "Go back to the table and eat your fish sticks."

"Fish sticks," Jesse groaned, sticking his tongue out even as he did as asked.

"And your peas!" Brandi hollered seeing their backs disappear; she stood and rubbed the glass where their noses had smudged.

A distinct, "Yuck!" came from Jesse, which made her laugh.

She reflected that it was odd seeing Sam and Jesse displaying the opposite of their usual personalities – Sam subdued and Jesse buoyant, but it shouldn't have surprised her. Sam was parentless in the middle of a monsoon; Jesse had both a mother and father and his best friend. What more could he ask for?

Venturing to Peter where he sat on the coffee table perusing the news, she put her arm around him and bent to kiss his cheek.

"What do they say?" she asked, eying the perky weather woman zooming back and forth enthusiastically across her map.

"They all say the same thing," Peter reported. "Parts of downtown have already lost electricity; the winds on the power lines are so strong. They don't think it'll blow over until five o'clock tomorrow morning."

"Wow…" Brandi breathed, shaking her head.

"Not a lot of threat so long as you stay inside and batten the hatches," Peter shrugged.

"I sure hope Mary's all right…" Brandi's voice trailed away with the thought, seeing the huge patches of red and green on the map presented by her-perkiness.

Peter looked up at her before he responded.

"Marshall's with her," he reminded his wife. "I'm sure they're both fine. They know what they're doing."

"I don't even know _what_ they're doing…" Brandi muttered, to which Peter cut her off.

"And we never will," he said firmly. "We can just hope that they'll get home safe before the worst of it hits."

"Yeah…" Brandi knew this to be true, but she still had trouble grappling with it sometimes, especially when she was worried about Sam and had nothing useful to tell him. "I wish she'd call though…"

"She probably can't get service, hon," Peter went on rationally, curling his arm around to tickle his fingers up and down her back. "If there's anything to tell, we're going to be the first to know. We've got their kid."

There was logic in this, and it helped Brandi to hear it. She couldn't gauge how concerned Sam actually might be. He usually didn't clue in to the specifics of Mary's and Marshall's jobs the way the adults did. But as the storm had progressed he'd become a little quieter, keeping to himself and speaking when spoken to.

Brandi perked her ears up listening to the boys around the corner, their forks clanking against their plates.

"You don't like rain?" Jesse was asking in his high-pitched voice.

"I like it," Sam's voice was softer.

"Just not _so_ much rain," Jesse speculated.

"I guess," Sam was non-committal.

Hearing them, Brandi patted Peter's shoulder and ventured cautiously in so she could see them. Sam was pushing his food around on his plate and Jesse was gnawing a fish stick off his fork with little success actually prying anything loose. Sam was looking up, but past Jesse, beyond him, not really seeing him at all.

"Hey, you two," Brandi called, hoping to energize Sam a little.

They both looked at her, Jesse with his mouth full of fish.

"When you're done we can hook up the dance mat," she suggested. "Go a round or two – Peter's been practicing and I think he's ready for a battle."

Jesse swallowed his fish with an enormous gulp; Sam looked slightly more cheerful.

"What if I'm done now?" Jesse asked hopefully, shielding his plate with his elbow so his mother would not see he'd barely eaten.

Brandi smirked, showing she was not to be fooled.

"Finish that piece and eat some peas," Brandi instructed. "You too Sam, okay?" she couldn't help adopting a more sympathetic tone as she spoke to her nephew, but he nodded agreeably.

"I want to dance to that one song," Jesse declared. "I can't remember what it's called…"

"Dynamite," Sam reminded him, somewhat dully.

"Yeah!" Jesse nodded enthusiastically.

"Whichever one you want," Brandi told them as she stepped all the way up to the table and peered into their milk glasses to see if they'd been drinking; Sam's was empty. "Do you need some more milk, Sammy?"

He shook his head, but didn't say anything.

"After Dynamite I want that one where the boy and girl sing together…" Jesse was babbling.

But that was when Brandi heard the surge – saw the flicker and sputter of the lamps – her ears caught the downward rush of noise that meant the TV had died. A few seconds and several glimmers later, the boys pausing to glance at the ceiling, the room went black, swept in darkness.

It was Jesse who gasped and then giggled, but Sam hadn't moved; he was rigid, stiff as a board, holding himself tightly and shrinking from the blackness.

"What happened to the lights?" Jesse murmured curiously.

Brandi could just barely see their outlines at the table; Sam's head of waves, Jesse's of smooth and silk.

"We don't have any power," Brandi explained in an appropriately soft voice. "The storm knocked it out."

Oddly, the disorder beyond the four walls sounded much louder without any light. Why was that?

"How will we see the TV to dance?" Jesse asked innocently.

Brandi was going to take pity and enlighten him, but Sam obviously understood better and he spoke up.

"We can't use the TV," his voice was barely a whisper; Brandi only knew it was him because it was lower than Jesse's. "No lights means no electricity…"

"Sam's right," Brandi reinforced, although she did not know why she thought this would help. "No TV, no microwave, no freezer…"

"_No TV_?" Jesse was incredulous, hardly daring to believe it. "What will we _do_?"

Brandi laughed against her will as she heard footsteps, which meant Peter was joining them through the dankness, now without any news reports to watch. Brandi could tell he was feeling his way along the counter to the cabinets, hoping to find something that would help them see.

"Sam, you know if your mom or dad keeps a flashlight anywhere?" he asked from across the room, bumping awkwardly against the cabinets.

"No…" his voice was still smaller.

"I can't see _anything_!" Jesse marveled, and Brandi could tell even through the shadows that he was waggling his fingers in front of his face to tell if his hand was still attached.

"You two don't get up until Peter finds the flashlight," Brandi said as soon as she thought of it. "I don't want you tripping."

At that moment, there was a monstrous crackle of lightning that put the room in the briefest, most blinding spotlight. Brandi was surprised to see that Jesse was almost gleeful it was all so new, but Sam was visibly frightened; only half his face discernible in the short spark. His blue eyes had gone wide, moving fast trying to take it all in.

Brandi was about to reassure him, but she knew with that kind of lightning the thunder wasn't far away. It shook the house when it finally rumbled through; Jesse laughed but Sam nearly jumped out of his skin. Brandi stooped and put her arm around him, then and there, rubbing his hair sweetly.

"It's okay honey," she soothed. "Don't be scared."

Sam shook his head even plastered to Brandi's skin.

"I'm not scared."

He was trembling, proving all evidence to the contrary. Brandi knew his fierce desire to stay calm came from Mary. In his eyes, she was tougher even than Marshall, and his inability to fall apart came from the need to master that kind of bravery.

"Any luck with that flashlight?" she called to Peter to avoid responding to Sam, still with her arm around him.

There was a thud as Peter banged into something.

"Any guesses Sam?" he ventured another time.

There was a brief silence while Sam tried to focus, rain spattering the windows almost deafeningly. Brandi was anxious to get to her phone to try and call Mary again, although she knew it was probably to no avail. Wherever she and Marshall were, you could bet they did not have a signal.

"I thought I saw one in a drawer with batteries once…" Sam finally offered meekly.

"A drawer with batteries…" Peter repeated, bumbling along in the dark.

There was the distinct sound of drawers opening and closing, rustling which meant Peter was rooting around among the contents, when eventually there came a triumphant shout.

"Ah-ha!" he declared. "Sam, my man. You are…"

With a flick, a circular beam found the three figures at the table.

"A genius."

"Yay!" Jesse shouted merrily, clapping his hands in his typical four-year-old way.

Peter roved the ray up and down, side-to-side over their faces, trying to make the boys smile with his games, teasing young Jesse by pretending he could catch the light when he bounced out to the back wall. Sam had cheered up slightly in the presence of the light, offering a tiny grin for Peter's antics. Brandi stood back up and patted his shoulder.

"Let me have it…" she indicated for Peter to give her the flashlight. "I'll see if I can find some candles."

Peter graciously gave it up, trying to think of something they could do to keep Sam's mind off his parent's absence until they showed up. It was unlikely they'd get either of the boys to bed with such a monumental occurrence going on.

The first place Brandi went, however, was not to uncover candles but to her phone which she knew was on the coffee table. Groping, she realized both she and Peter had made an obvious gaffe in the search for the flashlight – their phones acted as the same thing with their penetrating glow.

She ignored this slight and immediately punched in Mary's number, clamping the cell between her ear and shoulder to hang onto the wavering light.

"_This is Mary. It's likely I can come to the phone right now, but I have more important things to worry about than taking your call so leave me a message and I'll call back if I think it's worth it."_

Brandi sighed at her sister's less-than-sunny outgoing message while she waited for the beep.

"Mary, it's Brandi," she hissed. "I don't know where you are, but if you can't get home tonight I need you to call right away. There's a storm going on here and we don't have any power; Sam really wants to talk to you…"

She thought if she made it sound like Sam was standing right there it might soften Mary up.

"Call as soon as you get this," she repeated. "Bye."

Huffing and shoving the cell into the back pocket of her jeans, Brandi adjusted the flashlight and made her way to the kitchen for candles, hearing Peter make easy conversation with the boys. She could tell Jesse was crunching his fish sticks again.

Twenty minutes and three candles later, the room was considerably brighter if no less noisy, and Peter had formulated a plan, for which Brandi was grateful. She had no idea how long the night was going to be if Mary and Marshall didn't get home soon, and they needed to keep Sam content. Scared or not, there were not better substitutes for one's mother and father in such a thunderstorm.

"Do you guys want to make s'mores?" Peter presented, trying to sound excited.

"What's a s'more?" Jesse asked restlessly, bouncing up and down in his seat.

Brandi, even in her worry about Sam, wasn't all that shocked Jesse was getting so feverish about the action. Bizarrely, the fact that he was not afraid when Sam was seemed to aide him.

"It's a snack," Peter explained. "You might make them when you go camping, but we can use the fireplace."

"Why don't you just use the stove?" Jesse suggested.

"Electricity," Sam chimed in bleakly.

Jesse wilted only slightly as Peter pressed on.

"It's like a chocolate sandwich," he teased invitingly and Jesse actually licked his lips in a huge cliché. "You roast marshmallows and then stick the marshmallow and a Hershey bar inside two graham crackers."

"Yum!" Jesse squealed. "I want to make some!"

"What about you Sam?" Peter asked, hoping to get him on board as he turned from one end of the table to the other, Brandi still watching.

Sam shrugged half-heartedly, and his eyes found his aunt across the room, her face flickering against the candle she held. He wasn't stupid. He knew what she'd been trying to do out-of-earshot and knew she had not had success.

"Sure…" he agreed without enthusiasm. "Mom keeps all the junk food stuff above the fridge."

Peter nodded, "Great." And then, "You guys head for the fireplace."

They stood up, scooting their chairs back as they did as told and Peter ventured to join his wife. He knew there were graham crackers in the pantry, and had made sure he had seen marshmallows and chocolate in the cabinet before he'd offered to make the treats. As Jesse jabbered on endlessly while he and Sam scooted in front of the dark fireplace, Peter appealed to Brandi.

"Anything on Mary?" he whispered in an undertone.

"No," Brandi answered just as furtively.

"Marshall?"

"No," she repeated with a sigh. "I left messages for both of them but…"

She exhaled another time in her stress, knowing she had to pretend everything was rosy if she wanted to keep Sam happy. Peter patted her shoulder roughly as he pulled down his s'more materials with his free hand.

"I'm sure they're fine," he assured Brandi once more. "They're probably just holed up somewhere and can't get out."

"Maybe…" Brandi tried to be optimistic, but she didn't believe it.

Peter was far better at pretending Mary and Marshall did _not_ do exactly what they did. Brandi didn't know enough about law enforcement to speculate very much, and Mary was always so closed-mouthed about her job. When she was younger and more naïve, she really used to think her sister schlepped criminals to-and-from the courthouse, but after she'd been shot Brandi had stopped believing it. She didn't have to know _what_ it was to know it was dangerous.

"If anything, I'm sure they're glad that they know Sam is safe," Peter finished conclusively.

Brandi knew this to be true. But this was not just about Sam. The young, helpless little girl that still lived deep down in Brandi's soul needed her big sister to tell her how to keep things secure, to do the right thing, to stand up when you wanted to fall down.

"You better get to the boys," Brandi advised. "I'll keep trying Mary when I can – maybe she'll get a surge or something."

Peter obeyed, carting his bag of marshmallows, box of graham crackers, and bars of chocolate, the flashlight teetering precariously atop the stack now that Brandi held a candle hostage. She'd left the two remaining on the coffee table.

"Be careful of the fire!" she called randomly, not sure to whom she was speaking.

Nobody answered and Brandi opted to go and sit on the couch and fool with her phone for something to do, so Sam would not think she was being evasive all by herself in the kitchen.

She watched Peter strike the matches and light the logs on the far end of the room, both Sam and Jesse perched on their knees to watch. Sooner rather than later, the embers were glowing and casting all three men in a cozy, shimmering orb. Jesse kept putting his hands close to feel the heat, and Peter repeatedly had to pull them back.

"Jess, that'll burn you," he said for the sixth time. "It's really-really hot; it'll hurt your hands."

Jesse finally listened, but his smile was lit by the crackling flames; he was clearly quite content. Sam, unfortunately, was squirming beside him, pulling at the neck of his T-shirt.

"It's really warm…" he complained, trying not to sound too whiny.

"Back up Sam," Peter suggested. "Here…" he handed him the bag of marshmallows and the gaggle of forks he'd brought from the kitchen. "Stick the marshmallows through the fork and then I'll show you what to do next."

Blindly, Sam busted the sack and started jamming the squishy treats onto the forks, but he continued to back up toward the coffee table with every passing second.

"Why's it so hot in here?" he finally asked Brandi, even a good distance from the fire.

"The air conditioning won't run without electricity," Brandi leaned onto her knees to tell him. "And even with the rain, it's still humid outside."

Sam nodded, not exactly reassured when the thunder coursed through the roof above another time, rain beating against the shingles like sniper fire.

"Move the chocolate away from the fire, man…" Peter's voice carried as he continued to bat Jesse's grabby hands away. "It'll melt."

Sam glanced without interest and then at his project, having used all the forks Peter had provided him with. He considered leaving the food and just sitting with Brandi, maybe seeing if he could figure out what had become of his parents, but the idea of getting an answer he didn't want kept him from doing so.

"I finished the marshmallows," he told his uncle.

"Awesome," Peter rubbed his hands together excitedly. "Bring them here and we'll roast them…"

At that moment, just when Sam was scooting back toward the main attraction, Brandi's cell began to vibrate. She started even at the buzz, having turned the ringer off as to not give Sam false hope. She had the merest second of optimism until she saw that Mary's name was not on the display. It was an unfamiliar call, someone she didn't have in her contact list. Silently slipping off the couch, she answered in the kitchen.

"Hello?" she whispered.

"Brandi…?" came a broken voice accompanied by an onslaught of static. "That you?"

It was a man, but it definitely wasn't Marshall.

"Yes, this is Brandi," she said at once, fighting not to let her voice rise. "Who is this?"

A pause against all the crackling while Brandi pressed her finger hard into her free ear to hear anything that might come through.

"…McQueen…"

Brandi's heart leapt and she had to remind herself yet another time not to freak out, because the boys were sure to take notice.

"Stan…!" she whispered urgently. "Have you heard from Mary?"

Her stomach was in her throat as she hung on, but it took only one word to dash all those good dreams.

"…No…" And then some choppy, "But…off…haven't…"

"I can't hear you very well," Brandi reported, probably unnecessarily. "Do you know where they are? Do you know when they might be back?"

She waited as patiently as she could. The static shifted into almost nothingness and Brandi felt herself sinking thinking she'd lost him, but then he returned. Although it was still fuzzy, there was much less background noise and Brandi guessed he'd either gotten in a car or gone indoors.

"I'm not sure where they are," Stan reported marginally coherently. "They were out on an…" he hesitated. "An assignment…"

Brandi hated that word. It was ambiguous and unhelpful.

"But they went off the grid," Stan went on.

This didn't sound good at all.

"I'm trying to get back in touch with them, but I don't imagine they have service…" he predicted. "And I can't go out and look in this weather."

Logical, yes, but not useful.

"Listen Brandi…" static interfered another time and Stan must've heard it too because he paused until he was sure he could get the rest heard. "If I manage to talk to them, I know Mary's gonna want to know. Is Sam all right?"

Funny, how he guessed it would be _Mary_ that wanted to know, not Marshall.

"He's fine," Brandi reported at once. "Worried, though. I think."

"Makes two of us," Stan sighed, which didn't go anywhere toward helping Brandi feel better. "They were supposed to be back at the office an hour ago, so in theory they should've been home before seven but I don't imagine they'll head to the office now if they're able to brave the roads…"

Brandi nodded even though Stan couldn't see her, trying to wrap her mind around all this worthless information. Why had he even called?

"I wouldn't get too worked up, Brandi," Stan advised as though he were reading her mind. "They're probably just delayed with the weather and I wanted you to know that…"

Brandi glanced at her watch and saw that it was inching toward eight-thirty – past Sam's and Jesse's bedtime, for starters, but that was the least of her worries.

"I'll let you know if I hear anything – if I can," Stan informed her. "I'm gonna hang up; save my battery."

"Okay…" Brandi didn't know what else to say. "Thanks for calling," even though she didn't mean it.

Stan hung up without saying goodbye, and the cut-off was long and loud in Brandi's ear. She yanked the cell away, unsatisfied, and turned even more so when she realized she had paced and turned her back to the living room in her anticipation. When she whirled around, Sam was standing there.

She knew the jig was up.

Even so, she attempted a sunny smile, but Sam had clearly prepared himself.

"Brandi?" he whispered meekly.

"Yes sweetheart?" she bent her knees so they were face-to-face.

He swallowed, his face half-hidden in shadow, so Brandi could not entirely read his features but she could tell he was trying to stay calm.

"Where's my dad?" he murmured. "Where's my mama…?" he closed his lips tightly around the last word and Brandi felt her heart flutter.

He'd basically stopped calling Mary 'mama' since preparing for kindergarten come fall, but it slipped at his most vulnerable moments, when he felt the need to be small again.

"My mom," he corrected himself, falsely confident. "Are they coming home?"

"Sammy, of course they're coming home," she tried so hard to sound certain, giving his shoulder a hard squeeze. "They're just stuck somewhere with the storm," now she lied, but she just couldn't help herself; he looked so sad.

"Who was on the phone?" he asked.

"Stan," now she was truthful.

"Did he tell you where they are?" he looked painfully eager, and Brandi hated to disappoint him.

"Well, you know Stan can never tell us exactly," she reminded her nephew. "But he's sure that's what happened," she was fabricating again, known for her need to be optimistic.

Sam sighed, slightly discouraged but not without hope. Brandi just prayed everything she'd filled him with was some measure of what was actually going on. He was sure to be even worse off if Mary and Marshall had dropped off the face of the earth or, to use Stan's words, 'the grid.'

"Come help Peter and Jesse make the s'mores," she pressed to get his mind off it. "They're delicious; I know you'll love them."

Sam looked totally unconvinced, "Mom doesn't like me to eat all the chocolate…"

His lip quivered precariously he was trying so fiercely not to cry, and his mention of Mary made it worse.

"I want there to be some left if she comes back…"

"Oh Sammy boy…" Brandi breathed affectionately, their position so perfect for her to put her arms around him.

He didn't return the hug, but he was shivering all over, a remarkable feat considering he had claimed he was overheated from the lack of air conditioning and the fire blazing in the living room.

"Not _if_ she comes back," Brandi was as firm as she knew how to be. "She'll be back; of course she'll be back," she insisted, rubbing the hair on the back of his neck. "She didn't just leave you; she's just caught somewhere with your dad…"

At these words, Brandi recalled that during good times Sam was closest to Marshall. But when push came to shove he wanted Mary – Mary's toughness, Mary's rugged, take-charge attitude. Marshall possessed all those traits too, but he effectively shielded them from Sam to be a more sensitive parent. Both ends worked when they needed to.

"What if something happened to them?" he moaned, and he still wasn't shedding tears but he was damn close.

Brandi pulled away to look into his miserable face and tweaked his soft cheek.

"_Nothing_ happened to them."

This could absolutely be a bald-faced lie, but Brandi couldn't stand to have him believe that.

"Let's not think about it right now," she breezed on. "Come eat some s'mores. I bet they're ready and they're the best when they're warm."

Nothing else to do, Sam finally nodded and sniffled a little bit before he allowed Brandi to take his hand and lead him back into the living room.

"Come on Sam…" Peter beckoned with his arm from his station, obviously sensing what had gone on in the kitchen. "Hot off the fire…"

"They're really good!" Jesse piped up, his mouth already smeared with melted chocolate, fingers sticky and pasted against his graham cracker.

Sam sat down and tried to look willing to make an effort. Brandi couldn't help giggling at Jesse, hunching over and tilting his face up at his chin.

"Baby…" she chuckled, shaking her head. "You're a mess. Let me get a paper towel and clean you up…"

"There's no point hon…" Peter shrugged unconcernedly. "He'll just get messier. Wait until he's finished."

Jesse smirked in an almost conceited way, all Hershey and mushy marshmallows and delight. Brandi took his face in her hands and kissed him square on the lips, getting a taste herself.

"Mmm…they are good…" she nodded approvingly and Jesse laughed. "What do you think Sam?"

For Sam was just getting his first lick, trying to hold the treat together with both hands, biting at the corners so it wouldn't fall apart. Eventually, he managed to get his mouth around it while Peter held his fingers beneath, waiting to catch if it came undone.

"It's all gooey…" he finally said, but seemingly enjoying it. But his sharp mind was not to be deterred, "Can we make some for mom and dad for…?"

He tapered away, and Brandi knew he'd debated between the use of 'if' or 'when.' She nodded knowingly and smiled again, seeing Sam's face flicker in a strange warble in the glow from the fire.

"They'd love that," she told him. "Help Peter; make them count."

The evening waned on; Peter tried desperately to stretch as much mindless drivel out of making the remainder of the s'mores, not knowing what they were going to do with the rest of the night. The storm continued to wage, gusts of wind and thunder seeming to rock the house off its foundation, candles dying in their stubs so Brandi continued to light them.

Shortly after nine, Jesse crashed out on the hearth, his face still tarnished in chocolate and Peter had to nudge him away from the slowly-dying fire so he wouldn't scorch his hair. The two solitary s'mores Sam had made for Mary and Marshall lay untouched, getting cold where they sat on the coffee table.

Peter busied himself cleaning up while Brandi settled Sam in the crook of her arm on the couch, trying to entertain him with mindless games on her phone. He seemed vaguely interested for awhile, but then he just glazed over and watched Brandi play.

"They'll be home soon…" Brandi told him over and over, kissing his head each time. "They'll be home soon…"

She didn't know what else to say, and wished on every raindrop that fell she was telling the truth. She kept hoping Sam would drift off without coming to until his worry washed away, but he didn't. He stared through the gloom, candles snuffing out, rain pitter-pattering and splashing against the windows.

And then, close to ten, just when Brandi was seriously considering sending out some sort of search party, the front door flew open with a nasty, swirling, very leafy gust of wind and there they were.

Well, there was Marshall anyway. He was supporting Mary on an arm, not exactly a reassuring sight for Brandi, and both of them were soaking wet, dripping all over the floor. But it was plain Sam couldn't have cared less.

"DAD!" he cried as he soared off the couch, his father being the first he could see.

"Hey!" Brandi and Peter called in unison.

Reluctantly yet swiftly, Marshall slid his arm off Mary's shoulder and she stood weakly on her own.

"Hey sheriff!" he shouted with ample enthusiasm, now fully prepared to swing Sam up and into his arms in a joyous reunion. "I'm so sorry we're late man – the storm kept us busy!"

"That's okay!" Sam decided at once, clinging to Marshall like a life preserver, his fingers climbing all over his chest, clutching at his neck. "Brandi said that was what happened!"

Funny how you could believe it now, but Brandi herself was not influenced at all. Mary was barely standing upright, her eyes swimmy as she tried to focus them on Sam. Even through the dim light, Brandi caught that there was a gash across her forehead. She was suffering from not having Marshall to hang onto, but was pooling everything into not showing Sam.

"Mare…" the younger sister could not stop herself from addressing all that she was seeing, but that was all that escaped.

"When did you lose power?" Marshall asked, Sam still in his arms.

"Around seven or so," Peter estimated. "But we made some s'mores…"

"I saved you two!" Sam declared proudly. "I made them myself!"

"You're so generous," Marshall told him, and his smile fell just slightly.

"What's generous?" Sam asked.

Marshall was more than happy to oblige, "It means somebody gave you something special."

Sam grinned – beamed practically – just as Jesse began to stir in all the excitement, lifting himself off the floor. The darker-haired of the two boys finally seemed to turn his attentions to Mary, but was so worked up about everything being all right again, he did not notice her inadequacies.

"Hi mama," he said sweetly.

Mama. Within, somewhere she thought she might've lost, Mary registered that. It was this that forced her to form words to speak, to show she had not been beaten.

"Hi Smush…" she managed hoarsely. "Hi…"

She leaned as carefully as she could and pressed her lips into his temple for a long kiss, breathing in the soft, tenderness of his skin. She'd hung on for this.

"Sam, we've gotta get into some dry clothes," Marshall informed his son swiftly, knowing he needed to get Mary out-of-sight as fast as he could. "Then we'll dig into those s'mores."

"Help me get the fire going again," Peter suggested, seeing this for what it was. "We'll warm them up."

"Okay," Sam was instantly agreeable and allowed Marshall to pat his back and slide him back to the floor.

The minute he was busy, Jesse ready for the action again, Marshall slipped his arm back around Mary's waist and she went limp in acceptance. They hobbled across the room circa some sort of three-legged race and Marshall added instructions to Brandi.

"Come with us – bring the flashlight."

Brandi nodded wordlessly and followed her sister and brother-in-law all the way down the hall, and was very careful not to say anything until they were safely in the pitch black bedroom with the door shut. She snapped on the flashlight and saw that Marshall was already aiding Mary to sit down on the bed.

"What happened?" she finally burst, hating seeing Mary like this, hating not knowing what was wrong. "Are you guys okay?"

"I'm fine…" Marshall sighed, but turned momentarily distracted, "Sit down…sit…" he murmured to Mary. "But Mary's a little banged up; she hurt her shoulder…"

"How?" Brandi wanted to know as she held the beam steady so Marshall could see.

Why in God's name she expected an answer she had no idea.

"Just…" Marshall actually did respond, which was something. "Work stuff…" but he was obviously not paying much attention. "Hold the light up high Brandi; I need to get a good look…"

Brandi did as told while Marshall spoke softly and gently to Mary, taking her through everything he was doing.

"We need to get your jacket off…" he said first. "Hold out your good arm so I can slip it out…"

Blindly, his wife obeyed, her breathing becoming faster and hoarser the longer she tried to stay upright. Marshall was able to work her arm out of the jacket without disturbing what was apparently the bad one, but Brandi could tell from the awkward way she was holding herself she was trying desperately not to move.

"Don't touch it…" she finally murmured, and it was almost begging, which scared Brandi even further.

"Is there anything I can do?" she couldn't stop herself.

Marshall shook his head, "Just hold the light; thanks."

He put a hand that contained no pressure on Mary's remaining jacketed shoulder and went on.

"Babe, I'll be really careful…I know it's gonna hurt…" it was like he was talking to a five-year-old. "But I need to get the jacket it off so I can see what it looks like…"

Forced to accept, Mary finally nodded, gritting her teeth; her hair still sopping and matted around her face. Brandi did everything she could to hold the flashlight still, but her gut seared when Mary moaned – loudly – as Marshall worked the cover off as quickly and efficiently as he could.

"Squish, please…" she pleaded, obviously needing something to complain about as she put a distressed hand against her forehead. "Go out and sit with Sam…" she didn't want or need an audience.

"Mare, I need her to hold the flashlight," Marshall soothed, leaning to kiss her forehead in praise for getting through the hardest part. "Step closer Brandi, and hold it high – kind of across her neck on this side…" he gestured.

Brandi was shaking a little as she did what he said. Fortunately, due to the heat outside, Mary had on a tank-top underneath and further undressing wasn't needed.

"That's great, thanks…" Marshall told the younger sister as the only spark they had illuminated Mary's skin.

Her eyes were closed and she was still gasping trying to stay together, to not cry, to make it all okay.

Marshall felt a horrific stab against his heart as the light flashed to Mary's shoulder; there was a dark, deep purple bruise spreading from the side of her neck all the way across her collarbone to the to the other side.

"Whoa…" was all he managed, calm as he could be.

"Oh my God…" Brandi breathed for him.

"Mary, you're all bruised up," he reported. "You said you don't think you broke anything, right?"

After a few moments, "No…" she shook her head. "I don't think so…"

"Okay," Marshall resolved to believe her. "You probably bruised the bone though and you might've pulled the muscle. I'm gonna need to take you in tomorrow; you think you can make it through the night?"

"Have to, won't I?" she moaned. "With the monsoon…"

"Yeah…" Marshall muttered distractedly. "We need to figure out how to get you into some dry clothes. This shirt is plastered to your skin…"

"Just leave it," she shook her head and swallowed. "I don't care…"

"They're gonna make you take it off at the hospital tomorrow, anyway," Marshall reminded her rationally. "Who do you want getting you undressed? Me or them?"

Mary sighed, brushing her knotted hair out of her face with her hand, still holding the opposite arm awkwardly stiff across her middle. Marshall waited patiently while Brandi's mind worked furiously, trying to think of something she might be able to do – anything that would help. Life-threatening or not, she hadn't expected anything like this.

"Mare, if Marshall can get that tank-top off, you could put on one of those old…" she paused, not used to speaking up, not used to Marshall's blue eyes looking so bright in the beam from the flashlight. "Um…those old flannel shirts…" she fumbled on. "With the buttons? Then you wouldn't have to put your arms above your head again…"

Marshall nodded instantly, pleased, and appealed to Mary.

"I think that's a great idea…"

"I don't have a flannel shirt," she gasped, shaking her head. "Brandi's gone lost her marbles…"

"I guess it's actually me that has them…" Brandi's heart sank thinking she'd acted too fast, but it was Marshall to the rescue.

"I have plenty with buttons," he soothed. "You can wear one of mine; it'll be nice and roomy."

Mary was obviously too spent to argue and likely would've shrugged if her shoulder were in better shape. Marshall took this to mean she was agreeing and put the rest of his plan into action.

"Brandi, can you leave the flashlight with us and get Mary some pain meds from the kitchen?" he asked.

"Which ones?" Brandi wondered, thinking that Aspirin or Ibuprofen would not give her sister much relief with something of this magnitude.

"I think there are a few pills left from when she was shot – they'll be stronger," he explained, and then took his sister-in-law through what the container looked like and what she'd see on the label, before she thought she had enough information to get what he was looking for.

Marshall waited until she returned before attempting to get Mary undressed, curling his arm around her lower back and caressing her leg on the other side – the furthest source of comfort he could give away from her aching, mangled shoulder. Brandi eventually came back, bearing the pills and a glass of water.

"There's only four…" she reported as Marshall thanked her and unscrewed the cap. "Is that enough?"

"Two should do it," he decided, shaking them out and handing them to Mary. "Here…"

Mary swallowed the pills with an enormous gulp, which put them well on their way to at least a little relief. Marshall decided it was time to get rid of Brandi before Sam could get suspicious about why it was taking them so long to change clothes – and why they needed Brandi's help. He knew Mary would likely tell Sam at least a portion of the truth once she was in any state to do so, but now wasn't the time.

Once Marshall got her tank-top off – which inspired much groaning and cursing as she had to move her shoulder at uncomfortable angles – he helped her into a pair of drawstring pants, the second uneasy feat.

"I'm going to tip over onto my ass…" Mary kept insisting, trying to stabilize herself against Marshall's shoulder with her uninjured arm.

"And I keep telling you I'm not going to let you fall," Marshall persisted just as strongly. "Just grip tight and you can get your leg in…"

"I can't see a Goddamn thing!" she burst angrily, and unfortunately swayed her joint in agitation which prompted another, "Ah…!" as she winced.

"Take it easy…" Marshall tried to alleviate the situation, anchoring her once more. "Go slow…"

"It _hurts_…" she growled, and Marshall saw tears come to her eyes even though they'd left the flashlight sitting upright on the dresser.

"I know it does; we're working on getting you more comfortable," was his constant refrain. "So we can get you those s'mores."

Mention of food motivated Mary just enough to power through and she was able to wiggle into the pants without too much grief, and then Marshall slipped her into one of his smaller snap-ups and helped her with the buttons while she rested on the bed.

He fully intended to move on and get the cut on her head cleaned up, but she stopped him with a rare request.

"Take a break for a minute…" she whispered, shutting her eyes against the light he was holding so he could see her.

"Sure," he nodded agreeably and fell onto his knees in front of her.

They'd taken so long to get her dressed the pills were starting to take effect and Marshall could tell; she was worn-out, but her eyes had cleared a little and coherence was dawning.

"How you holding up?" he asked, squeezing her knee lightly.

She looked sweet and shrunken in his plaid shirt – an old, faded one of grey, pinstripes of palest blue. He'd guessed its many washings would make it softer than his work shirts, but it was so long it reached her knees. He'd left only the top button undone, revealing the smallest peeking of her skin.

"I'll be okay," she offered quietly. "Just be a long night until I can get it looked at in the morning."

"You're lucky he only got your shoulder," Marshall reminded her. "If you hadn't turned and ducked at the last second, you'd have hit your head."

"I shouldn't have hit anything," she lamented. "I had him; I was practically choking him – I just couldn't see because of the rain."

Marshall wasn't about to let her blame herself. Since it had happened a few short hours before, he continued to see the figure of her twisting away from the brute that clutched at her neck; wrenching loose and smashing hard into the door of that old minivan. She'd sliced her forehead on the rearview mirror as she'd fallen. Marshall had been just a few seconds too late, dealing with the man's bastard accomplice.

"I should've been there," he reached up to brush her hair aside, not wanting the strands to get caught in the dried blood from the cut. "The one I handled was a stupid, stringbean punk high on coke. You needed me…"

"Marshall, I'm fine," she sighed and closed her eyes again. "I've had worse."

"This cut isn't bad," he reviewed to avoid arguing. "Nowhere near deep enough for stitches. We just need to get it washed out."

Mary nodded at this, and Marshall used the opportunity to jog into the bathroom with his flashlight and wet a washcloth, unearthing a box of band-aids under the sink.

"Sorry; this water's really cold…" he said when he returned, wringing out the fabric. "No electricity, no hot water, but it's better than nothing…"

He knelt in front of her once more from where she sat on the bed, swinging the beam back to her face, but was startled to see tears mingling with the sweat and the raindrops, pinking her skin, making her nose run.

Marshall sighed, trying to meet those beautiful green eyes, but his mind told him not to coddle. After tonight, she was going to have enough of that to last a lifetime and resenting it to boot. Instead, he hung onto the flashlight with one hand and placed his other across her lower back, kneading lightly with his long fingers.

"Mare, talk to me," was all he said.

He kneaded and kneaded, deeper and deeper, harder and harder, until he could get her to say something back. The pain might be bad, but it wasn't causing the tears. When she still wouldn't talk, he squatted up a little higher and dabbed the washcloth across her gash, making her hold the light. Some caked blood clung to the nubby fabric, but otherwise it was far from still gushing.

"There…" he whispered as he secured a band-aid, brushing her drying hair over the spot to hide it.

Unable to help himself and noticing there were still tears, he turned and kissed her right temple, breathing her in as she had done with Sam. He felt her sink in acceptance halfway through, and then she spoke.

"We shouldn't be doing this…"

"Doing what?" he asked rationally, trying to smooth her hair down a little better; he was no stylist.

"_This_," she insisted firmly. "This job, this lifestyle, this…_everything_," her eyes, once clouded had become focused.

"Why not?" Marshall whispered.

And yet he knew, without a shadow of a doubt, exactly why not. There was only one 'why not' that was good enough, that would prompt this sort of response from Mary.

"Because of Sam," she hissed urgently. "Not because he could've lost us, but because…" she searched for the right word; Marshall thought she looked very much like a battle victim with her band-aids and oversized shirt. "We lost _him_."

Marshall didn't follow, but wanted to find out.

"Help me," he nodded slowly.

"We just _left_ him here…"

"We left him with his aunt and uncle," Marshall interrupted gently.

"We just _left_ him. He was scared; I saw it in his eyes; he pretends in front of me but I _know_ him…" she ran her good arm across her nose to keep it from dripping. "I can't stand the idea of him here wondering what happened to us, wondering if we're ever coming back…"

"Well…" Marshall understood this completely, but couldn't help speculating on whether Mary would feel the same way about a job she loved in the clear light of day without so much pain being inflicted. "We always say that if it's really dangerous one of us won't go…"

"But we always break that rule," she reminded him. "Always. Every time."

"But we haven't been wrong so far," Marshall cut in. "We've gotten some bumps and bruises, but I know you don't want to live that way where you think danger lurks behind every corner."

"But…"

Marshall wouldn't let her finish.

"Stan _makes_ one of us stay behind if he really thinks it's unsafe," he reminded her. "He never lets us get away with slipping through the cracks. This was a fluke, Mary," he assumed. "We had no idea some light rain shower was going to turn into this; those deadbeats used the weather their advantage. They never would've been able to pull it off without all the cover."

Mary knew this to be true, knew that neither Marshall nor Stan would let her stubbornness outweigh what was best for Sam. She fought them on it sometimes, but when push came to shove she listened when they told her to sit down and shut up to avoid getting seriously hurt.

"Maybe we shouldn't be in the field together so often," she murmured quietly.

She'd thought Marshall would be taken aback by this, but he wasn't.

"If that's what you want," he shrugged and patted her knee again. "Then that's what we'll do."

Mary didn't know what else to say, but it was clear Marshall had-had his fill and wanted to put this day behind them.

"We can discuss it some more tomorrow," he went on swiftly. "But Sam's waiting, and you better go see him while you can. I want to get you in bed as soon as possible."

"I don't need a nursemaid…" Mary groused as she was able to stand on her own, a little wobbly and crooked, but up nonetheless.

Marshall snatched a pillow from the bed and followed her as she shuffled out, opening the door and emerging into the hall.

The living room was dancing with firelight once more and the sounds from both Sam and Jesse were ones of happiness and liberation, glad that the world had turned right-side-up once more. Mary grinned softly as she saw them perched in front of the flames, Peter teasing them, Brandi sitting on the coffee table close behind.

"You're back!" Sam declared when he heard the footsteps.

"Of course we are," Marshall puffed out his chest.

"You're wearing dad's shirt," Sam giggled as he saw Mary, who was in great view standing so close to the fire, but she really wanted to sit down.

"It's a new look; what do you think?" Marshall mused.

"Where are my s'mores?" Mary wanted to know before Sam could respond.

"Right here…!" their son whirled around and grabbed the fork still holding the center marshmallow on the graham cracker and stood to hand it to Mary.

As he did, however, he caught a sharp glimpse of the band-aid across her forehead, maybe even of the dullness in her eyes and his enthusiasm abated.

"Mama, did you get hurt?"

Mama.

"I just scraped my head – just some glass from the storm; no big deal," she told him as evenly as possible, taking the fork he offered.

She caught Marshall's eye and sent him a quick nod, telling him to reveal the rest.

"Listen sheriff, I'm gonna need to take mom over to the hospital in the morning…"

"The hospital?" he sounded slightly alarmed and now Mary wished she'd been the one to explain; she could do this herself.

"Bud, I just wrenched my shoulder a little – means I twisted it in the direction it's not supposed to go – and there's a pretty nasty bruise," she was heading for the couch and Sam obediently followed, waiting for more. "It's nothing they can't fix, but there's not anything dad or I can do for it here."

Sam nodded, feeling a little better with the truth, but also at having it watered down. Mary sat at the far end of the sofa near the fireplace, her bad side at the armrest. Marshall joined and handed her the pillow he'd brought.

"Under your arm – it should help keep it stable so it doesn't get worse before tomorrow," he instructed, and Mary did as he said, the pain only slightly dulled from the meds now.

Sam was cautious as he climbed up next to his mother, snuggling into the curve against her stomach now that he knew which end was the bad one. Mary tried not to look at the concerned, worrisome gaze in his huge blue eyes; she didn't want him to be scared.

"Don't you want your s'more?" he asked in a small voice, seeing that Mary still had the fork in hand.

"Are you kidding?" this was a good distracter and she scoffed. "You're lucky you already got one or I'd have eaten it too!"

Sam giggled, knowing this was absolutely true, as Mary attempted to take a bite, but she quickly realized this had to be one of the hardest foods to eat with only one hand. She couldn't risk moving the other side of her torso, and she was certain the snack would fall to pieces before she got any in her mouth.

And then, Mary felt the world come to a standstill, saw it move in slow motion as her five-year-old, soon-to-be-kindergartener, sat up and reached out one, tiny little hand. His fingers curled around corners of the graham cracker, stabilizing it so Mary could take a bite.

She felt tears come to her eyes as she realized how much he was growing up, how much he loved her, and how much he must've missed her tonight.

"Thank-you Sam…" she actually used his real name, muffled from the crumbs in her mouth. "This is great," she licked the outer corners of her lips. "You made this?"

"Uh-huh!" he nodded vigorously, not knowing how much his gesture had meant to his mom. "Jesse and Peter too."

Mary thought to look to them; Jesse was paying no attention whatsoever, but Peter was smiling softly. So was Brandi on the coffee table, and Marshall from his post across the room.

Mary had never felt so pleasantly embedded and surrounded by people she cared about, and her heart swelled with gratitude at having made it to tonight.

Sam was watching her chew with some amount of skepticism, and it dawned on her he might think she wasn't enjoying the treat as much as she said she did.

"Do you _love_ it?" he suddenly asked, proving her theory.

Mary leaned over and kissed the top of his soft, downy feather waves.

"It's perfect…"

A word she never, ever, in a million years dared to use.

"Just like you."

**A/N: Hope you enjoyed the sweetness as well as the tension – dramatic enough to put you on edge, but not enough to be life-threatening. But **_**definitely**_** enough to get Mary and Marshall thinking about staying out of the field as a unit, which as we know they'd pinned down by the time Sam was almost seven. I'll be thrilled if you enjoyed!**


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: I do not own In Plain Sight!**

**Thanks for continuing to read and review – you guys got me to 100 today, so that is amazing! Hopefully you liked that last one, even with the length. This one's pretty extensive as well, also bordering on the sweetness/tension side of things. Now we're two months, pre-Marshall-shooting!**

XXX

_Six Years, August:_

The stench of chlorine was so strong during the raging August heat waves. It always seemed to hover so closely on the horizon, like its own cloud, like if you squinted hard enough through the haziness you might actually see the tint of green mingling with the blue.

But with chlorine almost always came the swimming pool, and that was where the Mann-Shannon's had joined the Alpert's in Brandi's and Peter's very spacious backyard. Although Mary had put it off since Sam had mastered walking, she knew the time had come for him to learn to swim. He'd certainly been in the pool before, but never venturing beyond the shallow end and it was actually Marshall, rather than his wife, that had begun to school him.

That was why Sam splashed around near the steps in his new swimming trunks, vibrantly aquamarine with bright green turtles printed all over them. They were still a little big and almost reached his knees, but it was plain he could not have cared less. Marshall was stationed nearby in his suit of plain navy, ready to teach.

"All right sheriff, you remember what we talked about first?" he asked in his professor voice, trying to corral his son who was beside himself with excitement.

"Mmm…" Sam hummed distractedly. "Floating?" he guessed.

"Very important," Marshall agreed. "But hard to do in the shallow end," he conceded. "Let's go with blowing bubbles."

Sam pouted at once, his face falling as he stuck his lip way out dramatically.

"But that's _hard_," he whined. "I keep just holding my breath," he jumbled his phrase. "I can't make the bubbles."

Mary eyed the pair of them cautiously from her knees nearby, keeping a watch on Jesse who was motoring around playing with his diving sticks. Sam's suit, while fairly wild, was nothing compared to the trunks Brandi had bought for her son. They were a very loud shade of orange with enormous royal blue Hawaiian flowers.

Instead of focusing on Jesse's swimwear, as he seemed content, she tuned back in to Marshall.

"When you use your mouth, it's easier to suck the water in," he admitted upon hearing Sam's concerns. "But it can tickle inside your nose, so I guess you have to decide which you like better."

"Hmm…" Sam said for the second time, pondering with his finger on his chin.

Marshall was patient, but Mary was getting bored. She decided to see if she could get Jesse in on the action. He was too afraid to stick his head in the water, so he dropped the diving sticks and then reached as far as he could standing upright to retrieve them. Some game.

"Jess…" she prompted, sidling over in the water and putting her fingers around his bare waist. "You having fun?"

"Uh-huh…" he nodded, slipping out of her grasp to do things his own way. "Is mommy getting in soon?"

Brandi was tied up in the house on the phone with Peter, who was trying to close some deal or other over at work. Mary could see her in her yellow knit beach dress, concealing her bikini which Mary thought was smart. Those swimsuits she wore made her practically naked.

"Yeah, soon…" Mary lied vaguely. "But what do you say we try something while we're waiting?"

Jesse was predictably apprehensive, "Like what?"

His anxious face was uncanny of his mother's; their eyes took the same uneasy and fretful glance as they prepared themselves for what the other person was about to say. Mary decided she'd go for rationality first.

"Aren't you hot?" she asked him, seeing his dry hair and skin from halfway down his torso and up.

Jesse thought for a moment, and then just shrugged. He fell into that response a lot.

"Come here…" Mary threw caution to the winds and pulled him in at the waist so he was pressed next to her, so she had most of the power; he was weightless in the water. "Let's go further out…"

She made sure not to take him to where he could not stand up, where the cement underneath began to slope downward, but it was plain that even leaving the safety of the steps made him nervous. So nervous, in fact, he found it prudent to speak up.

"Not my face…" he shook his head, Mary resting him on her knee where she crouched. "I don't want my face in…"

His aunt found this marginally exasperating, wishing that Brandi would not baby him quite so much. Still, in the recesses of her mind Mary knew that what she considered 'babying' in her sister was mere protectiveness in herself.

"It's nine hundred degrees out here, outlaw…" she sighed, and to reinforce the point, she ducked her own head under the water to get some relief, shaking her hair out of her face when she emerged. "You can stand here…" she informed him. "Promise; look…"

Without waiting for his approval, she slid her knee out from underneath him and his legs buckled, flailing madly for half a second before they hit the ground. He appeared briefly embarrassed about not having realized this, but said nothing.

"Throw your stick, dip right under; all you have to do is stand back up if you don't like it…" she explained like it was the easiest thing in the world. "You're going to boil if all you do is duck and cover all day…"

Jesse did not look convinced, but Mary thought his faith in his aunt might cause him to bite. Not to mention the conversation going on behind them while Marshall continued his patient instruction of guiding Sam through blowing bubbles.

"I got water up my nose _again_!" Sam hacked and sputtered dramatically as he came out of the water.

Marshall chuckled and gave him a hearty pat on the back.

"But you're getting close Sam," he assured him. "Blow like you're blowing your nose – like you're sniffing out," he repeated. "Think of it as being a golden retriever," he offered. "You've seen the way they use their noses."

Sam was thoughtful as he pondered this comparison. Marshall was curious if he could get away with it. His boy had gotten through many good sets of bubble-blowing, but sometimes he stayed under too long trying to hold his breath, which caused the coughing.

"You ready to try again?" his dad prompted.

Sam nodded, "Can you count this time?" they'd practiced this too.

"I can," Marshall nodded confidently. "For how long?"

Sam pondered and then, "To ten."

Ten seconds underwater was a long time for a six-year-old, but Marshall knew his sense of moments was a little warped, and what he really liked was the tap on the head telling him to come up for air. His father could always fudge a little if he thought Sam might be running out of steam.

"All right," he agreed swiftly. "Ready…" Sam crouched in a dive-under stance on his knees. "Set…" but he was already poised. "Go!"

Mary watched just long enough to see Sam submerge himself once more before turning back to Jesse and his ridiculous dilly-dallying around. She was bound and determined to get him to go under, no matter what it took.

"Give me one of those things…" she demanded of her nephew, snatching a hot pink diving stick.

Without further ado, she heaved it the width of the pool where it sank like a stone about five feet away. She was certain Jesse could still stand upright where it landed, but no way would he be able to stretch far enough to grab it without putting his face in.

"Fetch," she offered him a pleasant smile.

Jesse's concern didn't subside, but he slowly paddled his way through the water, Mary close behind to keep a watch on him. Once he reached the stick, he stood sentry as if to say, 'now what?'

"Jess, do you know how to hold your breath?" Mary asked.

He nodded, "I think."

Mary figured it was probably best to make sure.

"Show me."

He didn't hesitate, sucking in a spectacular amount of air to demonstrate his skill. Mary was glad Brandi – or Peter – had been teaching him a few things with a pool in the backyard.

"Good," she nodded approvingly. "That's all you have to do. Duck under, hold your breath, grab the stick, and stand up."

It was a lot all at once, and Jesse's face clearly indicated this, as if he couldn't possibly remember everything Mary had just told him. He also couldn't erase the self-doubt that he got from Brandi. Mary wished she'd hurry up and get outside to give Jesse some encouragement.

"But I put my face in the water once…" he insisted.

Just _once_?

"And I didn't like it," he concluded. "Daddy tried to show me how, but it made me cough…"

"Well, that's what happens if you keep your mouth open and try to breathe," Mary admitted. "But don't do that. Shut your mouth and I swear, all you have to do is stand if you want to get out," she pressed rather impatiently. "You can't sink here, Jess; you're taller than the water."

Her last explanation spoke to him in a way he would understand, and his green eyes started to hold a little bit of hope that his aunt's reasoning might hold some merit. He was silent for another moment or two before speaking again.

"I _really_ can't sink?" he whispered.

Mary shook her head, "Not here."

He looked down into the water, his bright pink stick warbling, seemingly pulsating beneath the gentle waves at his bare feet. So close and yet so far. He could do it; he could squat, grab, stand, and be done. And then he'd be brave just like Sam.

He glanced at Mary and she was simply waiting, perched on her knees, her hair already growing dry just from the five minutes she'd been out of the water.

And then, without any warning in the least, he seemed to gasp on the surrounding air itself before he splashed under the tide. Mary was so startled by the sudden acceptance; she nearly missed his fingers close in around the stick, which is why he almost smacked her in the chin rocketing back to the surface.

"Whoa…!" she swung her head out of the way just in time, Jesse's face and chin stretched into a very drippy smile.

"I did it!" he declared proudly. "I did it!"

"You sure did, man," she said approvingly. "Nice job," she patted his slippery shoulder. "See, I told you it was easy."

Jesse merely beamed at his accomplishment, now fully ready to try again.

"Will you throw another one?" he asked eagerly. "Please?"

Mary was about to agree when she heard a second joyful shout sound from behind her and she whirled around to see what had become of Marshall and Sam.

"Mom!" her boy called across the pool.

He was flushed with excitement, his wavy hair plastered across his forehead so he resembled something close to Cousin It. Marshall, grinning fondly, reached out his long fingers to spread the strands out of his eyes so he could see.

"What's up bud?" Mary asked when he didn't respond.

"I stayed under till dad counted to ten!" he proclaimed, his eyes bright. "And blew bubbles the whole time! He said I could try to dog-paddle again later!"

"Good for you, Smush…" Mary praised the first of her boys.

Before she could get back to Jesse though, Sam continued along in his gulpy, breathy manner that came from expending so much effort going underwater so many times.

"Come watch me, mom!" he demanded about as sweetly as he could without asking. "I want you to see!"

Mary _had_ missed most of his swimming triumphs, having adopted the 'too afraid to watch' manner until Marshall got him mostly under control. Funny, how it was easy to assure Jesse he couldn't drown in the shallow end but she was concerned about the same thing happening to Sam. She owed her son his little bit of glory.

Quickly, she turned back to Jesse.

"You can throw them, man," she tried to make it sound exciting, knowing she was going to ditch him. "It'll help you practice floating in the water."

This was not true, strictly speaking, since he could still stand up but it sounded good. Fortunately, he seemed to buy it, and with any luck Brandi would be out soon.

"Okay."

"Okay," Mary nodded, already wending her way back to Sam when she remembered. "Don't throw them down that way," she instructed her nephew, gesturing at the deep end of the pool. "The ground slopes further down and the water will be over your head."

He nodded his understanding and Mary was not overly concerned, between Jesse's need to toe-the-line and knowing the cement didn't dip until another three feet or so. She got to Sam quickly, and he was bouncing all around, clearly all worked up about his achievement and wanting to try more.

"We've got a regular dolphin on our hands here," Marshall said proudly as his wife approached, Sam so thrilled he could practically burst.

"Show me what you've got, Smush," Mary told him without responding to Marshall's comment.

"Wait-wait, I'm not ready…" he suddenly said, prepping himself like he was about to run a marathon. "Dad has to tell me when to go…"

Marshall's eyes had briefly left the scene because he was the only one who could see Jesse from his post, but he was obviously satisfied and got back to his son.

"Okay sheriff, I want to see some bubbles…" the father said seriously. "One…" he began. "Two…" his eyes flicked onto his nephew one more time. "Three!"

Sam plunged under with an enormous intake of air and Mary actually watched as tiny little pockets rose to the surface and burst, Sam doing some steady blowing underneath the waves. Mary thought it was funny the way his hair lifted in the currents while he blew, making only his locks look somehow inflated.

He was once more flushed with victory when he came back up, free of coughing but still trying to grab a breath of air.

"Did you see me mom?" he wanted to know hoarsely. "Did you see me?"

"You were awesome," she said genuinely. "Can't wait to see what you come up with in the ways of learning to kick."

She wasn't worried. He'd been a good kicker since he'd been in the womb.

"You should probably take a break for a little while though," his mother suggested.

"But I'm not tired!"

"Mare…" she just barely heard Marshall in her left ear, knew she was blocking his admission to the other end of the pool just from where she sat.

"But you need to catch your breath," she went on with Sam. "You can't stay afloat well if you're sucking on wind the whole time…"

"_Mom_!" he groaned dramatically. "I can do it – really!"

"Don't argue with me, pal…"

And then, "Mary…!"

This time there was no mistaking the urgency – no questions to be had as Mary heard Marshall for the second time, and the timbre to his voice made her snap back in almost at once.

Whirling around, she felt her innards very nearly fly up into her throat as she saw that blonde head of hair at the other end slip precariously beneath the surface of the water. Marshall had already moved to barrel past her, but she was too fast.

"Shit…!"

Sam gasped at her cursing, but her mind was on overdrive; it was all action now, no room for thought or fear as she tore through the water to rescue Jesse. In the deepest recesses of her mind, she knew he would be perfectly fine. They'd been right there and she'd have him up within ten seconds; it wasn't even twelve feet to where he'd sunk.

Mary duck-dived under the shimmering turquoise of the water and scooped him up by his belly so that they emerged at the same time. She'd been too ramped up on adrenaline to notice what he'd looked like floating free underneath, but the minute they hit fresh air she could tell his coughs were mixing crudely with terrified sobs.

Mary was able to stand and when she did, she saw a lime green diving stick mingling beneath her toes.

"I sinked!" Jesse wailed, more frightened than Mary had ever heard him through his tears. "I sinked!"

"I know…" Mary breathed, holding him as close as she could, kissing his hair even though it was sopping wet. "I know…its okay…" she promised foolishly. "It's okay; I've got you…" she whispered to reassure him. "I've got you; its okay…" she repeated over and over.

"Mommy!" he bawled, completely ignoring his aunt. "I want mommy!"

Who could blame him?

"Get Brandi!" Mary barked at Marshall, who did as told at once. "You…!" she ordered Sam, who was now the one by himself. "Sit on the steps and stay there!"

Sam recognized the seriousness of Mary's words for what they were and had no choice but to obey, hugging his knees and watching the scene unfold, all of his triumph zapped in one fell swoop.

"I want out!" more requests from Jesse, who was an utter wreck, clinging in a death grip on Mary's neck. "I want to get out! I don't want to swim anymore!"

"Okay…" Mary was more than happy to abide, shuffling as well as she could with him in her arms. "Here we go…"

She reached the edge of the pool and set him on the concrete, only his legs dangling in the water. Once he was secure, she lifted herself up without using the ladder and immediately hoisted him back into her arms the second she had two feet on solid ground – hot ground, at that.

She was more the halfway down the length of the pool when Brandi flew out, Marshall bringing up the rear a little less frantically.

"Baby, what happened?" she asked, as if Jesse were in any shape to answer.

"I sinked!" Jesse wailed for the third time, but Brandi obviously didn't latch on to the tense shift, her eyes growing confused.

"You what…?" her words trailed away and once they were close enough, Mary immediately passed the frenzied Jesse into his mother's arms.

He soaked her dress, dangling from her neck like some sort of pendant while Mary just stood there not knowing how to explain herself. If Marshall hadn't been looking, if they'd let anymore time pass…

She couldn't even go there.

"Shh…" Brandi soothed her son, trying to get him to wind his legs around her waist so she could hang onto him better. "Jesse honey, calm down…"

In a much more rational tone than Brandi usually adopted, she finally turned to her sister.

"Mare, what happened?" she murmured over Jesse's theatrics.

Mary didn't know what to say. She rarely felt she was to blame when it came to anything Brandi-related; there was always an explanation that involved the younger sister being a screw-up. But even staying in the house too long, not teaching Jesse to swim before now, none of those compared to him nearly drowning under Mary's watch.

Fortunately, it was Marshall who chose to answer.

"He's all right…" Marshall assured Brandi, reaching over to pat Jesse's back. "Mary and I got distracted with Sam and he slipped on that slope down there…" he pointed it out. "I saw him right away; Mary nabbed him before you could blink…"

Mary wanted to chime in, but found she could not; her act of heroism had only been preceded by her stupidity. Jesse hadn't _wanted_ to swim; he hadn't _wanted_ to put his face in the water and she'd made him feel like he had to. Why did she push him in ways she never did Sam? Why was it okay for him to take the risk but not her own son?

"I think he just got caught up trying to catch his diving sticks," Marshall finished kindly, trying to rumple Jesse's hair which wasn't easy with it all wet; in any case, he was facing the other way. "Didn't realize from underwater where he was headed."

Mary felt certain Brandi would begin to fly into a tizzy at Jesse being out too far, making the whole situation even worse than it already was, but that wasn't what happened at all.

"Oh baby, were you trying to _swim_?" she nudged Jesse with her cheek trying to get him to look at her, a note of unmistakable delight in her voice. "I'm so proud of you; I know you don't like to go under…"

Mary was astounded. Leave it to Brandi to make this sound like a good thing – and even be smart about it as she went on.

"You just make sure you know where you're going," she advised. "Stay a little closer to the steps next time…"

But for Mary, this was just too much. What was about to come out of her mouth was something she hoped she wouldn't regret down the line; giving Brandi the opportunity to see that she was wrong and foolish about anything, to break down that self-assured image she longed to uphold.

"Squish, it's my fault," she spit out recklessly. "I told him to try putting his face in and then I didn't watch…"

Miraculously, Brandi just smiled as she rocked Jesse who was finally settling down.

"Mare, don't be a hero," she teased. "It was an accident."

Yes, it very nearly had been.

Still, her breathing began to slow with her nephew's; her pounding heart died when Jesse descended into hiccups and quivers. He looked as though he would never let go of Brandi, and clearly had no inkling to face his aunt or his uncle.

"Let's get you a towel sweetheart…" Brandi suggested, patting his bare back and sounding like Jinx with the terms of endearment. "You want to take a break and have a snack?"

Mary guessed his 'break' would be lifelong, but didn't voice this as Brandi, surprisingly, gave up her son to Marshall to head into the house for the desired items.

"I'll be right back…" she assured him. "Come sit at the table and dry off…"

Jesse snuggled up with Marshall, working his temple into his chest and sniffling softly. There was the briefest flash as he turned and his bloodshot, big green eyes caught sight of Mary standing nearby. There was no malice there – few five-year-olds had it – but Mary couldn't help the pang that struck her heart at the fear that resided. Her ridiculousness had scared him senseless.

"Jesse…" she couldn't help herself; she had to say it, leaning in to get his attention. "I'm really sorry, man…" she shook her head. "Honestly, I'm a doofus…"

The word came without warning; she was so used to using it, but it was also the one that prompted Jesse to talk.

"I thought Uncle Marshall was the doofus," he whispered so softly she almost didn't hear.

Marshall himself laughed at this, struck by its cleverness and also glad his nephew could absolve some of Mary's guilt.

"Well, he must've loaned the title out to me today," Mary accepted the tease. "But I hope you'll try swimming again soon," she didn't want him to implement a permanent boycott. "You were doing a good job."

Amazingly, the little blonde boy tried to smile through his watery eyes, clearly feeling the safety that existed in Marshall's chest, his eyes barely visible behind the crook of his uncle's arm.

"I wanted to do as good as Sam."

Ugh. Mary hadn't even considered this and judging by the look on Marshall's face, he hadn't either.

"Well…" she was trying to be careful and sensitive. "Jess, Sam's bigger than you," she reminded him. "You can't always do the same things."

She didn't know what made her refute the idea, but fortunately Jesse was either too tired or didn't care, because he didn't say anything as Brandi returned with a fluffy yellow towel and a whole box of Chips Ahoy.

"Let's go sit…" Brandi told her son as Marshall passed him back to her, all ready to drape the towel on him like a cape. "I made lemonade; it's on the patio…" she teased invitingly.

Mary watched as her sister played the expert mother, toting Jesse back to the table under the overhang. All she could do was stare momentarily until Marshall raised his eyebrows in that explicit way of his, telling her not to beat herself up or dwell.

"I think I'll join them," he claimed out of the blue. "Okay?"

Mary just nodded, and felt her anxiety lift just a little as Marshall squeezed her shoulder before departure.

"Excellent save, inspector."

She managed a smile reminiscent of Jesse's tiny one as she let him go to his nephew and sister-in-law, nothing else to say. The pavement was beginning to scorch her feet and her hair was drying matted and in ringlets around her face, the split ends dripping onto the concrete behind her. Her swimsuit clung to her and she suddenly wanted to get in the house, change, and go home, when she heard a familiar voice.

"Can I get up now?"

Sam. Even with Jesse's mention, she'd completely forgotten about him. She would venture a guess she'd frightened him too – she rarely had to turn on her 'Marshal' voice with her son, but she certainly had. Apparently, he'd taken her 'stay there' to heart.

Slap-patting on the concrete over to the steps where Sam was still sitting, she lowered herself down beside him, the pool water a massive relief on her blistering toes.

"Sorry Smush," she told him. And then, because there was nothing better to do, "You want to blow me some more bubbles?"

Sam shook his head and slipped down a step now that Mary was back.

"I wanted to try floating," he murmured, sounding like he knew it wasn't the time to bring it up but unable to resist. Perhaps to put a shine on this, he turned back to Mary, "Jesse got hurt?"

"No…" she shook her head, speaking softly. "He's fine; he just went down too deep and got scared."

Sam nodded thoughtfully, swishing his feet in the low depth of the steps, clearly wanting to dive right back in. But Mary knew he couldn't forget the way she'd shouted and how she was when she meant business.

"Maybe Jesse should practice with dad and me," he continued. "I could teach him."

Mary had no idea where he'd gotten the idea that he could play professor, and intended to dispute it at once.

"Bud, _you_ don't even know how to swim yet," she reminded him. "You can't teach him until you've learned."

Sam shrugged; apparently, this was not a plausible stumbling block in his mind.

"He could still do it with us," he went on. "That way, if he sinks he'll know how to come back up."

It was a nice notion, and Mary began to wonder if it might be the best solution. With a pool in his backyard, Jesse was going to have to learn – maybe even sooner than Sam – how to swim so something like this did not happen again. It was too big a risk to take.

Still, she had no intention of badgering Jesse about it so soon after being traumatized and focused on her son instead.

"Come out with me, Sam," she flipped outward onto her belly to slide through the water and get wet again. "I'll get you floating."

Surprisingly, Sam looked skeptical and stayed where he was.

"Without dad?"

Mary didn't bother to hide her exasperation, "_I_ know how to swim too, you know."

Considering what had just happened with Jesse, this was maybe not the best argument on Mary's end, but Sam took the declaration for what it was and waded out to join his mother. It was too hot not to.

Mary, regardless of her fear that the boys would go under in an unsuspecting manner, now cared too much about turning them into fish so such a thing wouldn't happen and resolved to get over it. She stopped Sam to where the water reached his neck and he began to bob up and down nervously, pulling his knees to his chest and back down to test the length.

"Okay Smush…" she began. "What's dad taught you so far?" she needed to catch up. "As far as floating goes."

"Kicking my feet real hard," he replied promptly. "It makes me tired; that's why I want to get better."

Only Sam.

"Then we'll work on that," she decided. "Come here…"

Sam paddled a little closer and Mary immediately slipped one of her hands under his tummy, lifting him ever-so-lightly to the top of the pool. She realized in their movements that she'd positioned them where Sam could no longer stand. She worried because of Jesse, but reminded herself there was no looking away this time.

"Start kicking now Sam…" she instructed while she kept him afloat. "I'll hold you for a second and then let go…"

Her son started a series of very gentle motions of thrusting his feet up and down, comforted by the safety of Mary's hand. Slowly, so she knew he'd be aware, she began to slip her fingers away and he went down at once. It was less than a second she watched his head begin to slip, but she hurried to get him back.

"Kick Sam – fast-fast!" she urged. "Flutter-flutter-flutter!"

A waterlogged giggle escaped him as he struggled to keep his face to the wind, but he eventually lost and Mary scooped him up, balancing him on her knee while he caught his breath.

"I can't…" he panted, all evidence of the snicker vanished. "I can't do it…" he was frustrated, not fearful like his cousin.

"Yes, you can…" Mary assured him, whacking him heartily on the back to get the liquid out of his lungs. "You did fine…"

"I did _not_!" he argued, eyes blazing as he turned furiously to Mary. "I fell! That's not good!"

Mary had not expected such a severe reaction, and wondered if maybe this had been a bad idea all around. She'd tried to rejuvenate herself after Jesse's debacle, to brush it aside, but perhaps it was best to call it a day. Her nephew was distressed and her son was angry.

"Then let's get out," she suggested with this thought. "We're done," she didn't want to fight.

Evidently, he didn't like this idea either.

"No!" he coughed, his eyes beginning to water. "I want to do it right!" he insisted. "Please teach me how!"

It was only because of Marshall that 'please' made it in there.

"Not when you're like this," she was firm with her son, shaking her head from side-to-side. "You can't focus if you're upset."

Sam sighed, still trying to gather enough air to convince his mother he was capable, but at that moment there was another splash in their midst and Mary was stunned to see Jesse standing there watching them. She'd been sure he'd shy away from water for the next eternity after what had just happened. Although it was no surprise to find Brandi kneeling nearby, not going to let him out of her sight.

Sam was perplexed as well and cooled his jets to stare. Mary swallowed, trying to be cautious now that he was here.

"Hi, man."

Why he wanted to be anywhere near her was beyond Mary at this point, but she knew Brandi hanging out nearby was a help. Even more confidence had to be restored when Marshall ducked his way in as well; the entire gang together once more.

"How you doing?" Mary asked Jesse when he didn't say anything.

Sam butted in, "You went _way_ under. It must've been dark down there."

Marshall chuckled lightly, like a five-foot depth was somehow equal to the bottom of the ocean, but he didn't comment.

"It was scary," Jesse murmured to his friend, tugging on his ear, perhaps to rid it of excess water.

"But you were brave," Sam informed him casually, as though it were obvious. "You didn't drown or nothing."

"Anything," Marshall corrected quietly. "You didn't drown or _anything_," he reinforced. "Or even just, 'You didn't drown' would be appropriate."

Mary was getting uncomfortable with all this aloof talk of drowning, and had to wonder what it was about it exactly that Sam found brave. At least he was kind enough to say so.

"Yeah, that," Sam concluded, not bothering to repeat his father's words and suddenly recalling his own problems. "Dad, I _can't_ stay up," he moaned. "I sink _every_ time. What do I do?"

Why was it that Sam thought it was Marshall that had all the answers? What was it about the two of them that bound them together, not by blood or genetics or DNA, but by something stronger?

"Kick harder when someone's still holding you to start your momentum," Marshall advised. "And you need to use your arms too; your legs aren't strong enough to do it all on their own."

"What do I do with my arms?" Sam wanted to know, and he slid himself off Mary's knee and over to Marshall.

This was probably a good thing, because Mary figured it was best to make sure Jesse was really okay, if he wasn't just returning to the water to impress his cousin or for some other unknown reason. Brandi was propelling around him, trying to get him to move a little bit, but he was fairly rooted to the spot.

"Jess, I'll come have some cookies with you," Mary offered, still feeling guilty. "I'm getting hungry and I'm wearing out anyway…" she half-lied.

But his response was totally unprecedented.

Barely a whisper, "I want mommy to show me how to float."

Was it possible he'd been _so_ frightened; he was now working at all costs to prevent further episodes? Did that actually reside somewhere within Jesse – somewhere deep down? He had always been more of a scaredy-cat than Sam, as perfectly demonstrated by his reluctant attitude before slipping beneath.

But she remembered the way his face had lit up when he'd gone under all on his own, and you couldn't take that away.

"Are you sure?" Mary prompted, even though it wasn't her call; he'd said he wanted Brandi to do it.

He nodded regardless, Brandi sidling up to him and slipping her arms around his waist.

"What do you say we let Aunt Mary help?"

Mary knew she was doing it to absolve her guilt, to get Jesse to warm up to her. Mary liked to think she didn't need it, but she did. She absolutely did.

Jesse said nothing, but he didn't object so the three of them joined Marshall and Sam at the slope, where the pair was just getting going again. Marshall, unlike Mary, waited a lot longer while Sam built up his stamina before releasing him again.

"I'll hang onto you, baby…" Brandi promised, putting her son onto the surface just as Mary had done with Sam. "Flap your feet like you're trying to kick me," she teased. "And spread your arms like a fishy…" she took a leaf out of Marshall's book. "Show me your gills…"

Brandi, a much sillier parent than Mary, sucked her cheeks in and moved her lips to get Jesse to giggle. He was too focused on the task at hand to bother with it himself, but he did smile at his mother's efforts.

Mary watched as Jesse started out pretty well, boosted by the hand on his belly, faith that his mother wouldn't let him go. When this lasted long enough to be significant, he made a shocking request.

"Let go."

Mary flashed her eyes to her sister's, both wanting to see if the other had heard the same thing. Brandi, ever-cautious, tried to talk him down while he continued to smack at the water.

"I don't think so, honey," she tried to be sweet. "You haven't had enough practice yet."

But Mary knew it was Sam, victory, fear, and a thousand other things pushing his limits. The shine resided somewhere in his heart, he just hid it where it couldn't be seen; kept the lights out until it mattered most.

"Let go," he repeated. "I want to try."

Brandi considered once more, but her son had really just made the decision for her. She couldn't squelch the very rare voice that was ready to take a risk. And Mary had a sudden thought that might ease the younger's mind.

"I'll stand in front of you, Jess," she offered, moving so they were end-to-end, just barely catching a glimpse of Marshall's and Sam's lesson beyond. "I'll be at the front and your mom will be at the back, so there's no way you'll sink."

She'd said _that_ before.

"I promise," she added quickly, wanting to hurry before Jesse gave out even with the support.

He couldn't nod from his belly-down position, but she sensed he would've if he could. Brandi had also gone for acceptance.

"_You watch Mary_," his mother insisted firmly, as firmly as Brandi ever did. "Don't take your eyes off her, and make sure you keep kicking or you won't stay up."

He needed all the details, all the logistics after what had gone down not a half hour before.

"You ready?" she posed nervously.

It was clear Jesse wasn't going to give the green light, that it would have to be Brandi's instincts that let him float free. Slowly, from her crouched position where she bored into Jesse's green eyes, Mary saw her sister slip her hand out from beneath Jesse's torso, reeling in the anchor, pulling up the plug.

Both started screaming just foolishly the minute it had been done.

"Go-go!"

"Kick!"

"Fast!"

"Keep moving!"

"Don't stop!"

Mary felt her heart lift that moment she saw Jesse's eyes transform from fearful to full of bliss, full of the thrill of not letting the tide sweep him below. It lasted only for a second, he couldn't hang on more than five to seven, but it didn't matter. He'd learned what it took to reach the top, to not go careening into the darkness once more. The understanding had been established, terror left behind.

Mary's instincts knew when his legs gave out and she reached to scoop him up, slick like a guppy and he clung to her all shivery with excitement and shimmering with wetness and pride.

"Did I swim?" he wanted to know eagerly, clutching at Mary but asking Brandi. "Did I swim?"

"Yes, baby!" his mother squealed at once, leaning over and placing her hands on his cheeks, kissing his nose. "You were wonderful!"

"I looked at you!" he proclaimed at this aunt, turning as well as he could pressed so close to her chest. "I saw your eyes the whole time and I didn't look away – I never looked away, never!"

Mary and Brandi both laughed, Mary running a hand over his hair in her own form of congratulations.

"You want to do it again?" Brandi questioned.

And yet Mary was not at all surprised to see him shake his head. Once was all he wanted; there was no need to test himself any further.

"No…" he was direct. "No more…" Mary could feel him trembling even as he grinned. "I'm cold…"

He couldn't possibly be, but he obviously couldn't recognize the shaking for what it was. Brandi was more than happy to oblige him.

"All right…" his mother said with another laugh, reaching to take her son from Mary. "We'll put your clothes back on and then you can help me pick something for dinner."

They were halfway out of the pool when the second of enchanted cries met Mary's ears, the fourth that day. She was so pleased to be back on this side of it; crises averted. She turned to see Sam fanning all over the place, creating waves in his enthusiasm, but his fervor was making him float. Marshall chuckled as his son finally buckled and pulled himself into his dad's neck, to security.

"Sheriff, that was tremendous," Marshall was already on his way out, not going to let Sam press his limits any further, and Mary brought up the rear behind Brandi and Jesse. "I let you go for a long time."

"You did…?" Sam could barely whisper.

Mary was silent as she watched Marshall and Brandi lay the boys on a single lawn chair, snuggling them close in their towels – Jesse's bright yellow, Sam's fire-engine red. They were like pigs in a blanket, pitas in a pocket, two tiny burrowing rabbits side-by-side, their eyes bleary and bloodshot from the chlorine. Mary wondered if there would ever come a day when they'd be embarrassed about practically sharing a bed.

"Be right back…" Brandi promised, patting Jesse and flip-flopping in through the sliding glass door.

Marshall pulled his own chair over and one for Mary as well to face the boys. Both were smiling softly, but visibly tired. With their hair concealed by the towels, all balled up they were close to the same size and could be twins. Except for their eyes.

"You were both _fantastic_ today," Marshall assured them. "My courageous-_courageous_ men."

Both of them smiled for real and looking at them, Mary was struck by the sort of things they both taught her on a daily basis without even realizing it. The power of trying again, coupled with the fear of letting go.

**A/N: Swimming's one of those milestones, and I feel like this showcases Sam's and Jesse's strengths as well as their weaknesses (not to mention their parent's!) Jesse is extremely fearful, but actually marginally more skilled as well as calm once he figures things out. Sam is over eager, but easily frustrated because he can't do it right away. Pieces of Mary, Marshall, Brandi, and Peter floating around everywhere!**

**XOXO**


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: This one's a tad sparse, but good I hope!**

XXX

_Seven Years, February:_

Watching the grey, gloomy clouds hang so low in the sky outside the living room window; Mary wondered if it might snow. Albuquerque wasn't known for such a form of weather, but the conditions sure seemed ripe. It had been an uncharacteristically cold winter even though it was already February. That was why she was microwaving some hot chocolate for Sam when he got off the school bus.

The tiny oven was humming merrily and Mary was very grateful she hadn't needed to leave the house that day. Marshall was busy getting his new duties at WITSEC squared away, but Mary was already set. She'd worked for the morning and spent most of the afternoon on the phone with Brandi, who had jabbered on incessantly about some car she'd sold that day. The mindlessness had almost felt good.

She was just reaching to grab the heated mug when the front door flew open so hard it made Mary jump. A breezy, bitter gust of wind swept into the house and she saw Sam bolt through, the one parka he owned zipped up to his chin.

"Hi Smush…" she mixed the hot chocolate with one of her coffee stirs, initially thinking that he'd run in so fast because of the cold. "I made you some hot chocolate."

But Sam, in his bright red parka and black mittens, raced into the kitchen and as soon as Mary turned she saw instantly that his pink cheeks were not from the icy weather. There were tears streaming down, his big blue eyes full of them.

"Mom…" he moaned tragically, shivering and whimpering as he stood in front of her.

"Bud, what's the matter?" she asked at once, putting the cup down to face him. "Why are you crying; what happened?"

"Mom, I messed up…" he was trying to confess, but was too worked up to get the words out the way he wanted.

"What do you mean you messed up…?" Mary suddenly felt the same draft as she had a few seconds before and realized Sam had forgotten to shut the door in his panic. "One second, pal…one second…" she held up a finger to reinforce the point and strode on her long legs to close out the chilly air with a definitive slam.

Sam was just standing there trembling when she made her way back, still with his backpack on, still wearing his coat. His cheeks were so flushed Mary might've thought he was feverish if she hadn't known better. Shifting expertly into maternal mode, she knelt down in front of him to get him partially undressed.

"Take this off…" she instructed swiftly, undoing the snaps and then reaching to remove his mittens. "You'll get too hot, Smush…" she reminded him as if he should've known.

He just stood and let her dote, not even bothering to wipe his eyes and the tears were dripping fast into the navy sweater he wore underneath, clinging to the fabric like tiny, transparent beads. Mary threw the parka into the living room along with the mittens, keeping his backpack and putting it on the stool at the island.

"Come here…" without waiting for his approval now that he was free of constraints, she lifted him under his arms and onto the counter where he at least tried to keep from leaking onto the rest of his clothes by wiping his eyes.

"Calm down…" she whispered tenderly, rubbing the leg of his jeans. "Tell me what's going on. What has you so upset?"

Astonishingly, he shook his head.

"I can't tell you," he whimpered.

He'd never said that to Mary before and she was startled. To cover it up, she reached and smoothed his soft, feathery hair which was matted from the static in the air.

"You _can_ tell me," she argued boldly. "I want you to tell me, and soon. Did something happen on the bus?" she guessed.

He shook his head again, knocking Mary's hand from his hair.

"I can't tell you because you'll tell dad and I can't tell dad."

This, if possible, was even stranger. He told Marshall _everything_, even things he probably did not need to know – boring things, silly things, bizarre things; the list went on and on. What had gone on that he didn't want Marshall to know about?

"Sam, don't be ridiculous," she turned slightly annoyed. "Spill the beans so I can help you," Mary wasn't known for handling with kid gloves.

However, Sam was used to this attitude from Mary and gulped unattractively as he tried to do as told. He was always particularly concerned about doing as told, about doing what was right. One of his few attributes that came from both parents.

"We had that…math test today…" he hiccupped and it took him twice as long as normal to get all six words out because his chest was heaving up and down.

"Yes?" Mary prodded gently, curling her long fingers around to stroke his back in hopes that he would chill out.

"And I…I…"

He couldn't continue because he was coming apart again and Mary was getting increasingly impatient. He'd barely been this bad when Marshall had been shot just a couple months ago. Granted, things did seem to set him off a little easier since then, but this was getting out-of-hand.

"I missed _ten_ of them…" he moaned through his tears, shoulders slumping dramatically. "I counted them!" he insisted, looking back at her. "And my teacher wrote something on the page and I don't know what it says but I got a…a…

He gestured rather wildly at his backpack, unable to form the words, and Mary immediately turned and unzipped it from the stool she'd put it on, rustling around inside. She eventually – finally – came up with the test while Sam bawled miserably behind her and she saw the double-rounded letter printed at the top.

"You got a B," she couldn't keep the laugh in, she just couldn't.

He was this torn up over a B? Christ almighty, he really _was_ Marshall.

"You're upset because you got a B?" Mary wanted to clarify first but the fearful nod of Sam's head convinced her she was right and she laughed again. "Sam!" she shook her head she was so incredulous. "A B is a good grade."

"It's not an A!" he shouted so loudly his eyes almost popped. "Dad said I'd get an A!"

"Sam…" she was still smirking unwisely as she flipped through the standard addition-subtraction exam. "He just meant you _could_ get an A because you knew what you were doing. He didn't mean you _had_ to."

"Yes, I did!" he insisted, and his cheeks were rapidly turning blotchy from his hysteria, legs dangling above the ground from where he sat at the counter. "I did have to! Dad will be mad at me!"

Mary finally quit grinning as she looked up at him, knowing she needed to stop pretending he was being ludicrous. He was really, truly distressed and she was not helping with her aloof demeanor.

"Sammy…" she rarely used Brandi's nickname for him, but it seemed appropriate. "Dad isn't going to be mad. You did your best; he knows that."

Even as she said it, Mary wasn't entirely sure her reassurance was true. As she reviewed the test she saw that Sam had made very careless errors; he'd get the same problem right on one line, and when it was repeated he would miss it. Turning back to the front page, she saw his teacher's loopy handwriting next to his score, 'Make sure you take your time and check your work!' With that trademark smiley face next to it, which Mary scowled at with disdain.

Regardless, Sam was having enough trouble and there was no need to make it worse.

"I think you just got ahead of yourself bud…" she tried to explain, stepping to his side so he could see the test.

He did not seem interested, but she got on with it anyway.

"See here – you put down that five plus five is eleven," she pointed. "You know that isn't right."

She was trying to sound sympathetic, but it appeared to have the opposite effect.

"It's _ten_!" he groaned, inches from her face in his despair as he looked at her. "_Why_ did I put that?"

"Well, I don't know…" Mary was forced to admit, more to herself than to him. "Because you got it right over here…"

"I didn't do a good job!" he blundered on. "Dad's going to be so angry at me…" and he buried his face in his hands and just cried; it was a pitiful sight.

"Sam…Sam…" Mary pleaded and put the paper down, putting her arms around him instead; she was much better at initiating contact since the _real_ tragedy four months before.

At the touch, he unfolded into her embrace, a complete wreck as he burrowed inside her chest. He was going to barf if he wasn't careful.

"Jesus Christ pal…" she couldn't help herself feeling him shudder. "I swear dad's not going to be mad," she rubbed his back hoping he would ease up. "Why don't you believe me?"

She'd finally stumped him, because he didn't answer and when she thought he was maybe cooling down, she pulled away and rubbed his hair another time. She fully intended to talk him down some more, but he spoke first.

"I'm hot…" he complained, tugging at the neck of his sweater. "I'm too hot…"

She'd seen it coming; he'd been the same since he was a baby, always agitated when he was too warm. They had to force him to wear jackets and hoods and gloves because he forever told them he'd roast to death. Secretly, Mary always wondered if his aversion to being scorched had to do with the fact that she'd spent the last three – most difficult – months of her pregnancy enduring revolting heat waves. It was in his blood.

"Don't yank Smush," she reminded him, pulling his fingers away from the collar. "I'll take it off – put your arms up…" she instructed.

He did as she said and Mary worked the sweater over his head, making his hair even more rumpled. She rolled it up and sat it beside him on the counter while he, like the seven-year-old he was, sucked the snot back up his nose loudly. He wore a novelty T-shirt underneath that Jinx had gotten him from Old Navy. It was brown and proclaimed him a cattle-rustler in faded tan letters; a man wore a broad-brimmed hat bucking a bronco in the center. At the moment, it was all wrinkled and Mary reached to smooth it just when they heard the key in the door.

Sam sprung so abruptly he nearly hit Mary in the chin, but she backed away just in time. She knew it was Marshall; his meeting had been over at three.

Their son cast his mother an alarming look, but she nodded to keep him from blowing a fuse again.

"My, it's brisk out there!" Marshall called, slightly muffled underneath his scarf. "Might have snow soon! You never know!"

Mary hoped this might perk Sam up. They'd gotten a light dusting the Christmas Eve prior and he'd nearly gone berserk.

"Mom…" he whimpered softly, threatening to start weeping again. "Mom, you can't say anything…"

"Sam, you're being silly," she tried to be understanding, but firm. "You just made a few mistakes. Dad will not care."

Mary could not imagine where he'd gotten this overwhelming need to be perfect. Marshall had certainly never acted like he'd be a disappointment if he didn't achieve one hundred percent every single time. He was only in the first grade. She hoped he'd continue to do well if this was going to be his reaction every time he didn't construct the desired result.

"He _will_ care," Sam hissed so urgently it was a wonder Marshall didn't hear as he babbled in taking his coat off about snowflakes and ice crystals and God knew what else.

"_Stop_," much more direct this time. "We'll settle it right now," she decided. "You'll see."

Without asking to see if he cared – because she knew he would object – she lifted him off the counter and onto her hip. Ordinarily, he would whine about this alone but he obviously wanted to be close to Mary thinking he had predicted Marshall's feedback correctly.

"How's my very favorite pair doing on this wintertide February afternoon?" Marshall dictated as he finally ventured all the way inside.

He stopped in the kitchen to kiss Mary's cheek and rumple Sam's hair, who was looking shrunken. It took Marshall a moment, but he was obviously on super-speed as he saw the coat on the floor, registered blotchy Sam in Mary's arms where he did not usually reside.

"Are you okay sheriff?" he asked at once.

And yet he looked to Mary for the answer. She didn't hesitate to give it. This needed to be nipped in the bud.

"Sam had his math test today…" she plunged in recklessly, and she fully expected the agonized moan that streamed right beside her ear.

"MOM!" he wailed, throwing his head back, but he didn't let go of her.

"And he got a B and I told him that was just fine but he seems to think you're going to fly off the rails."

Marshall was visibly perplexed by the two personalities clashing at each end of the spectrum between his wife and child, but Sam's complaints kept him from speaking.

"I told you not to say anything!" he scolded, Mary bumping him higher on her hip so he wouldn't fall.

"That's not your choice," she informed him stoutly, refusing to engage over that.

"But I didn't want him to know…!" he was crying again and Mary had-had quite enough of that.

"Marshall!" she bellowed over him, flashing her husband a wide-eyed, exasperated look. "Tell him you're not upset! He acts like he's dying!"

Marshall, of course, was _not_ upset in the least but what was worrying him was Sam's mind-set. What had he done that would make his son think his father would be so disappointed about something like this? He could only hope it was just how he was wired and they could tweak it as necessary.

"Sam, stop crying and look at me," Marshall said first, completely calm.

It took a few moments, but when he saw that neither of his parents were going to do a thing until he backed down, he eventually gulped and swallowed a few times and managed to listen.

"Let's talk," his father suggested. "I am not angry with you. But come talk to me – here…" he held out his arms, indicating that Mary should pass him off, but she shook her head.

"You can't," she mumbled distractedly, sharp as ever. "It's too much strain on your wounds. Nothing heavier than thirty pounds until the end of the month…"

"Right," Marshall cut her off as he remembered. "Thanks," he was always forgetting, trying to jump in too fast. "Come to the couch, Sam," he offered instead, and Mary dropped him to the floor so he could follow his dad.

As Mary joined them, she grabbed the test itself and picked up his coat and mittens off the floor, replacing them on the counter. They were already seated together, Sam snuggled in Marshall's side, when Mary was able to hand him the test and settle into the chair on the short end of the coffee table by the door.

"Sheriff, how did you feel after you took this?" Marshall began rationally, waving the paper in example. "Did you think you'd done a good job?"

"Yes!" he insisted, confusion in his big blue eyes as he looked up at Marshall. "I did! I did – I thought I'd done a good job!"

"Okay," Marshall nodded solemnly. "How come? You thought you'd gotten all the problems right?"

Sam hedged, furrowing his brow and thinking hard.

"Well…" he considered even more thoughtfully. "No. I don't know," he admitted. "I can't remember. But I was the first one that finished!"

Ah, Mary thought cleverly. They were getting somewhere.

"Sam, I think you went a little too fast," Marshall informed him gently. "Being the first one done isn't what matters. You just need to take some time to think about the problems."

He cuffed him around the shoulder as understanding crept into Sam's features.

"Mom said I got ahead of myself…" he recalled.

"Yes, she's right," Marshall reinforced, and Mary couldn't help but smile as he talked. "You should be confident, Sam, but it's important not to be _over_confident. You still need to think about what you learned."

Sam latched on so easily in Marshall's approval, Mary thought. Everything made sense again. All was right with the world.

"So you're…" he needed to make sure. "You're not mad at me?"

"No, I'm not," Marshall shook his head seriously. "You just made a mistake – you'll make lots of them. Mom and I make mistakes all the time."

"Not _mom_!" Sam suddenly declared, turning to face her and beaming his bright, beautiful smile beneath his rosy cheeks. "She _never_ makes mistakes!"

Mary grinned seeing that he'd picked up on this less-than-flattering trait of hers, and Marshall did the same.

"Mom's mistake is that she doesn't like to _admit_ she makes mistakes," he winked at his wife under the combination of words.

"Very funny, doofus," she groused, and Sam finally laughed.

Marshall saw that they were out of the woods and kissed his son's head, who cuddled even deeper into his chest at the gesture. Marshall fingered the softness of his shirt on his back, stroking his hair as they held one another. Mary's heart ballooned seeing them together, her emotions still tender from what had gone on just four short months prior. There was no denying it was possible that Sam's complete overreaction to the grade came from almost losing his father and wanting to do right by him now that he was back.

"Sam, your best is always good enough for me," Marshall promised as his boy rested his head on his chest. "I don't want you thinking you'll be in trouble if that's not an A."

Sam sighed quietly while Mary reflected that Marshall, in the here and now, always knew just the right thing to say. It was something that he still had a strong grip on after rejoining the world of living.

"You understand that?" Marshall pushed to make sure.

Sam understood. But he broke Mary's heart proving her theory was correct. The aftermath of the shooting was still fresh, and while Sam might grasp emotions when handed them on the table, he was still just seven years old. The road was still so long.

"I just thought if you were mad and I didn't do a good job you might not want to stay home with me anymore," he confessed. "That you might go back to working with criminals and then you could…"

Mary finished the sentence so he did not have to.

"He could get shot again," she whispered.

Sam flicked his eyes to her and nodded sedately. Marshall was shattered by it, Mary could tell, but they were working on it. More with every passing day.

The road was still long.

**A/N: I love the reviews – and miss some of them! Of course I understand when real life gets in the way (happens to all of us!) but you all spoil me when you're so prompt! Love ya! **


	18. Chapter 18

**A/N: Thanks for the reviews! You guys see Mary on 'The Talk' today? How sweet are those girls of hers! Darling.**

**We're back to loooooooong chapters LOL!**

XXX

_Eight Years, November:_

"Sam, watch your sweater," Mary instructed, feeling a streak of proper etiquette surge through her; one she hadn't known resided. "You've got crumbs all over it…"

She brushed her long fingers down the fuzzy, forest green fabric of the material to rid it of the cashew-fragments Sam had been snacking on for most of the late afternoon.

"This tie is choking me…" he complained, yanking at the grey knot at his neck. "Why'd I have to dress up?" he asked in an undertone. "Daniel and Quinn didn't…"

Mary knew that. She'd been hearing about it since Griffin, Connie, Julian, and Kim had arrived at half-past four. She wondered if Sam would ever let her hear the end of it, but Mary had never spent a festive meal in somebody else's home and hadn't known correct protocol. Although Marshall had insisted Thanksgiving at his mother's didn't warrant country-club clothes, Mary had insisted.

"Claire did," Mary told her son to deflect this. "Sophie and Sarah too…"

"They're _girls_," Sam moaned, as though his mother was dim. "They _want_ to dress up."

Yeah. She knew that too. But she had a better response this time.

"_I'm_ a girl," she reminded him. "And I don't want to dress up – ever."

She'd thought Sam might tease her about this, but instead he went for intelligence, at which she was not-at-all skilled at sidetracking.

"Then why did you?" he asked smartly.

Mary sighed, placing her hands on her hips. She didn't need to have this discussion right now, with the million other things going on around her.

Although she'd stopped her son's salty-cashew-fingers at the outer counter of Carolyn's kitchen, women were all over the place on the other side. Carolyn was putting the finishing touches on the turkey; Connie and Kim were carrying dishes to-and-from the counter to the expanded wooden table. Sophie and Sarah were preparing an apple pie for later, Claire peering at their elbows trying to help.

Marshall was lounging with his brothers in the living room watching football, trying desperately to engage but Mary knew he wasn't much for the sports. Daniel and Quinn were doing most of the talking, tossing a pigskin back-and-forth on the floor and talking about a match-up later if the weather stayed nice.

"Look…Smush…" Mary exhaled again and shook her head. "I didn't know," she admitted. "I'm sorry. After dinner, you can get rid of the whole prep-school look."

Sam softened a little, "Why didn't you just ask Grandma before we came?"

This was a good question. Still the inner desire to be accepted? To put your best foot forward? Did it matter that she and Carolyn – not to mention the rest of the Mann's – had been family for eight years now?

"Because I wanted to do things my way," was Mary's unsatisfactory response.

Sam grumbled, "Big surprise."

Mary had half-a-mind to tell him off for back talking, but she knew that he, like her, didn't know what to do with himself. He didn't belong in the kitchen with the hens, or in the living room with the men. It was the first time they'd see the gang since Marshall had been in the hospital and although just over a year had passed; the sensations at those familiar faces were still raw.

But her son wasn't through complaining, glancing back down at his ensemble with shame, not to mention disdain.

"I look like a dolt," he declared.

'Dolt' was a new one – something between 'dork' and 'dweeb.' Mary might have to use it on Marshall.

"Well, you're in 'dolt' central," Mary informed him, clapping him on the shoulder. "Go hang out with dad; dinner will be ready soon."

Sam threw her one last look of longing, knowing his father was the only safety he had right now, but turned around and slumped into the living room to obey. But in his absence, Mary wished she'd asked him to stay – now she was the one that was lost.

Fortunately, she was spared the task of trying to figure it out by Claire twirling up to her in a plaid pleated dress, making her skirt fan out. Kim had braided her hair so it hung down her back and she, as Mary had so dutifully pointed out, looked more the part of a 'girl' than her aunt had ever seen.

"How's the pie coming, Claire?" Mary asked, striking up conversation.

"Eh…" she shrugged, coming to a halt with her twisting. "Okay, I guess. Sophie and Sarah got it figured out."

Mary furrowed her brow, "Weren't you helping?"

"I was, but…" Claire shrugged, trying to appear nonchalant. "Mom doesn't want me using the oven, and the twins said it was getting crowded, so…" her explanation trailed away.

Mary was almost _hurting_ at how hard she tried to be positive about being blatantly left out. Who else behaved in such a way – why did she make the effort? Mary resolved to hang onto her while the rest of the women began to carry the last of the dishes to the table.

"Do you like to cook?" it was a random question, but the best she could do.

"Mmm…" Claire considered, reaching to pat her braid as if to make sure it was still there. "Kind of. Dad says I need to learn so I can feed he and mom in their old age or something like that."

_Nice_, Julian. Charming.

"You think he was kidding?" Mary went on, trying to see how much Claire gleaned about her dad.

The twelve-year-old grinned, "Not sure."

Mary was hard-pressed not to smile back. Claire reminded her of Jesse in her cleverness – understated, yet razor sharp. This also recalled her to the fact that she should probably phone Brandi after dinner to wish her and Jinx a happy Thanksgiving. They'd been almost childishly put-out that she and Marshall had decided to spend this year's in Kansas.

"You liking the dress, Claire?" her aunt couldn't resist prodding, reaching out to pluck at the fabric in navy and white plaid. "I've never seen you in one before."

"Yeah…" she seemed to be referring to Mary's second comment as she reviewed her choice of clothing, one hand still climbing against the braid in back. "The dress isn't so bad, but my hair's driving me crazy…" this explained the touches. "It's so tight, and mom wouldn't let me wear my baseball cap…"

Mary grinned at this, hardly able to blame Kim but also understanding Claire's motivation. She would've been the same way as a child.

"Those boys prefer the dresses?" she teased, wondering why the outfit took precedence over the locks. "Or they like you better in the T-shirts and track pants?"

Claire's smile was sad, almost pitying, and so much more grown-up than Mary was used to seeing. She bent her head, fiddling with one of her fancy buttons, before answering as casually as possible.

"They don't seem to pay much attention no matter what I wear."

Mary opened her mouth at once to respond, although she had no idea what to say and just ended up gaping stupidly while Carolyn announced somewhere strangely far off that dinner was served. The TV flipped off, footfalls of heavy-men feet approached the table, and Claire scurried away.

Mary, still standing where her niece had left her, was joined by Marshall and Sam – their own little unit of three. They'd become more solidified as a stand-alone since a year ago October.

She must've still had her mouth open moronically, because Marshall furrowed his brow in concern.

"You okay, babe?"

Chairs were scraping, people were sitting down, and there was no place for it at the moment.

"Fine," she assured him, reaching to run her hand over Sam's hair, still properly brushed. "Where do Sam and I sit among the brood of thirteen?"

She didn't want to step on any toes, on any tradition, but she jumped when she felt a body slide behind hers and whisper in her ear.

"Wherever you want," Carolyn hissed coolly, and Marshall smirked seeing his mother play a good hostess.

"She's the boss," he responded. "Take your pick…" he indicated the table behind them, already fast-filling with all the family members, so choice was limited regardless.

"Can I sit by dad?" Sam whispered conspicuously, not wanting to hurt feelings but wanting to be comfortable.

"There's room on the end with me, Sammy," his grandmother chimed in upon hearing this. "I'll sit at the head and you can hang out at my elbow, mom across, dad to the left, how's that sound?"

It sounded great to Mary, and Sam expressed the same sentiment by nodding and allowing Carolyn to guide him to his designated chair, Marshall not far behind. Mary took a seat opposite her men, Carolyn indeed heading the table as promised. This left Mary with Griffin to her right – not her first choice, but they'd come a long way.

She watched Sam fiddle with his silverware, Marshall showing him how to sit properly at the table.

"Put your napkin in your lap…" he whispered, shaking it out and placing it there so his son didn't even have to do it. "Sit up straight…"

"Is this school?" Sam wanted to know. "I thought we were on vacation."

Marshall was firm when he had to be, "Don't get smart with me, Sam," Mary heard him say.

Sam sighed, but listened to the instruction as those around him did the same, even Mary who ordinarily would not have made the effort. The idle chatter among family members tittered away as Carolyn began clearing her throat to command attention. She, like Marshall, was in her element among guests.

"All right, my dears…" Mary's mother-in-law announced, a little over-octave to make sure everyone was listening. "No need for the sappy speech making…we'll save that one for later…"

Later?

"I'll just go with help yourselves, and say I hope the turkey's not too dry…" she tacked on as an afterthought, and this was met with a smattering of polite laughter as Connie and Kim hurried to assure her the bird would be fine.

"It'll be delicious, Carolyn…" Kim promised.

"It always is," Connie reinforced. "We watched you make it…" she gestured to her counterpart. "You couldn't have done better."

"On that note – break me off a leg," Julian chimed in from halfway down the table, and Kim flashed him an exasperated look, as though he were behaving like a child.

It seemed he didn't care how tactless he was being though, because he stood up in his seat and immediately began to carve for himself as well as those around them.

"Hope nobody else wanted to do the honors…" Griffin muttered at Mary's elbow.

Mary herself couldn't help grinning as she turned to him and he did the same – polite, vague, but genuine. Their rapport may have been less contentious than it had in the past, but they mostly kept to basics these days.

"You want to pick up a knife and masticate the poor creature, grouchy?" he asked, fooling with his sister-in-law to break the ice a little more.

"Better give Julian the chance while he's willing," she groused. "According to Claire, he's already schooling her on how to make a three-course meal before eighth grade."

It was her way of asking Griffin if he knew about this, and it was clear from the way he rolled his eyes that he did.

"I don't know why the hell he tells her crap like that…" the middle brother shook his head. "He thinks it's funny."

"Griffin dear, your Thanksgiving language some use some work," Carolyn chimed in from Mary's left as she reached past her for the butter.

This prompted a lighter, less annoyed roll of Griffin's eyes, mostly because he knew his mother was kidding – in part.

"It never stops," he sighed, picking up his wine glass and taking a long gulp.

When he turned to ask Sarah to pass the mashed potatoes, Mary dished herself from the nearby stuffing and let her gaze stray to Marshall showing Sam how to cut his meat, which he'd managed to pry away from Julian's slicing party.

"Stick your fork in there…" he explained. "Kind of like you're spearing it."

Sam awkwardly held his elbows above the table to do as his dad asked, but it was clear he was a little bit frustrated. Mary wondered if there was something on his mind; he was not exactly sad, but slightly subdued.

"Saw across…" Marshall went on, either not picking up on his son's signals or ignoring them. "While you're still holding that fork steady…"

"It keeps tipping over…" Sam informed him. "And it's hard…"

Mary, who usually appreciated Marshall's training their son in appropriate decorum, couldn't help thinking this wasn't the best time. Sam, already somewhat isolated from his cousins at the long table, couldn't engage in conversation if he was learning how to whittle down dead birds.

Fortunately, Carolyn came to the rescue as she always did so Mary wouldn't have to.

"Marshall, my beloved…" she shook her head and chuckled, putting her silverware down. She didn't even chastise him, she just blew right past, "Give your plate to me, Sam. I'll cut your meat."

Sam was quick as he snatched his dish from his father's fluttering hands and handed it to his grandmother.

"Thanks," he said appreciatively.

Marshall looked up, throwing Mary a sheepish grin like he knew how he was being but was unable to rein it in.

"You get turkey, Mare?" he asked to avoid discussing his overzealousness.

"Yeah…" she'd passed her plate down to be loaded up a few minutes before. "What else do you want, Sam?" she asked her son once Carolyn had finished her handiwork.

"Just mashed potatoes…" he answered, shifting in his seat and trying not to bump Marshall with his elbows.

"That's it?" Mary wanted to know; he usually ate very heartily on Thanksgiving.

Sam nodded, "Yep."

Mary wanted to ask if he was okay, but it would just prompt him to feel awkward and she didn't want that. They'd come to relax, to spend time with people they rarely saw. There was no need to put a damper on it just because Sam was quiet.

After Mary had dished Sam and then herself, she stayed mostly silent on her end as well, listening to the bits of conversation floating up and down the table. It was harder to know how to contribute when this part of the Mann gang lived so nearby, with her and Marshall out in the southwest. Marshall did well enough – always a good communicator – but Mary was content just to pay attention.

"Daniel, I bet they'll give you scholarship money if you go to KU next year…" Sophie was obviously trying to sway her cousin on university choices.

"For _what_?" Sarah scoffed condescendingly, like Daniel had nothing to offer. "They don't give you money just to strut around and talk about video games all day."

Mary knew Daniel had been expertly teased his entire life by the twins – second-in-line and all – but fortunately he was getting better at giving them what for right back.

"Been away from home three months and think they know everything about college life…" Griffin muttered in Mary's ear. "You can't convince them they're wrong for _anything_…"

Mary smirked lightly, not relishing the day this happened to Sam.

"What'd they give you to go to K-State?" Daniel asked Sarah coolly. "Dad says Griffin had to pay twice as much just to get you in because you almost flunked chemistry your senior year."

Sarah went appropriately red at this, but Griffin shot his younger brother a look of total irritation, craning his neck down the table just to glare. Mary guessed this conversation of expenses wasn't supposed to have reached the children.

"He _asked_ how much it cost!" Julian protested with his mouth full of turkey. "I told him less if he got good grades!"

"You _told_ him that?" Kim squawked at her husband. "Julian, he only has one B! That'll get him in anywhere around here!"

Now it was Julian's turn to go pink, having all of his secrets come out at once. Mary was pleased to see that Sam had started laughing at the way they were ganging up on his uncle.

"What if I don't want to go to college?" Quinn piped up unexpectedly, as if he had to worry about it at fourteen. "I mean, you don't _have_ to. It's not like high school…"

"Strictly speaking," Marshall cleared his throat, grinning mischievously. "You don't even have to attend high school after you turn sixteen if you can get a parent or legal guardian to consent to a drop-out form."

"_That's_ a big help!" Griffin reached across the table to poke his older brother in the chest; neither he nor Julian was giving him much assistance today. "Way to put ideas in his head, Marshall."

"I'm not stupid, dad," Quinn grumbled in an undertone. "Like there's any way you'd ever sign something like that."

"To answer the question, though," Connie finally spoke up among the squalling brothers and cousins. "You'd get yourself a good job if you didn't go to college."

"He can run the French fry machine at McDonald's!" Daniel joshed, grateful for the opportunity to boss after getting into it with the twins.

"Shut up, Dan…" Quinn frowned.

"Maybe by the time you're nineteen you can start flipping burgers…"

"Shut _up_!"

"All right, all right…" Griffin waved his hands to get them to settle down, swallowing another chug of wine as though he nerves needed it. "Cease fire, gentlemen."

Quinn slumped in his seat and crossed his arms over his middle, put-out about being poked fun at. He'd always been that way; never able to roll with the punches very well, and more pessimistic than Claire in the ability to brush it off.

"Well, Sam's gonna be the one ridding the world of evil come 2052, carrying on the Mann legacy in high fashion…" Marshall segued on, hoping to diffuse any tension that might still be hanging and clapping Sam on the shoulder. "The only question is _how_…" his father pondered. "Where do you see it heading, sheriff? What noble profession will you bestow the future generations?"

Sam went blank as well as generally pleased with all the frivolity, and gave Mary a skeptical look from across the table.

"_What_?" he couldn't stop himself from laughing and neither could Mary.

"That's a ridiculously show-offy way of asking what you're going to be when you grow up," his mother decoded for her son, and this prompted laughter around the table, loudest from Carolyn.

"Oh…" he shrugged between giggles. "I don't know. I can't decide."

Mary thought it was funny the way he sounded as though he'd actually been seriously considering it.

"Maybe a horse-farmer or something…" although his interest in steeds was waning. "Or an author…" he did like to read. "But not a Marshal."

It took Mary a second to register his last phrase, and it was only because of the startled look on Marshall's face that she computed it at all. It wasn't exactly a surprise, but for Sam to say it out loud was a little bold, especially in front of generations of law enforcement, in some form or another. Mary couldn't help wondering what Seth would've thought.

And Sam wasn't an idiot. Although he didn't realize at first, he definitely garnered something from the unsettling silence that fell. He turned uncomfortable at once.

"What?" he whispered uncertainly, although so quietly it looked as though he'd simply mouthed the word.

Blissfully, Carolyn knew just what to say and reached to tousle Sam's hair.

"A break from tradition," she mused kindly. "Nothing wrong with that."

Yes, Mary reminded herself; there was nothing wrong with that at all. Nobody expected Sophie or Sarah or Daniel or Quinn or Claire to saddle up with badges and guns. Did people anticipate that from Sam because _both_ his parents came from the fold?

Who could even _want_ him to after what had happened just a year before?

"Whatever you are, you'll be great," Marshall assumed to get the conversation going again. "Brains like my boy's, don't be surprised if he takes over the world."

Sam smiled weakly, still not entirely sure what he'd just said but fortunately the babble of conversation commenced in comfortable fashion once more, and he didn't have to worry about it. Still, Mary was concerned with the way his eyes kept darting to his mother's as he finished his food. It was like they were sharing a secret, like there was something wound between them and neither one knew what it was. They'd certainly become more in-sync since the accident; relying on one another more.

As dinner died down and it turned darker outside the kitchen window, plates scraped clean, Mary heard Carolyn clinking her wine glass from beside her left ear. She wondered if this was the 'later' that had been referenced at the start of the meal.

"Mom's ringing the dinner bell…" Julian reported a little drunkenly; Mary wondered if he'd had a few too many. "Guess that means we've got to listen up…"

"You better believe it," Marshall threw his mother a glowing look and Griffin and Julian immediately made retching noises, which earned a small smile from Sam.

"Marshall Christopher – world's biggest brown-noser," Griffin claimed, like he was going to be sick on the spot. "Don't know if I'll be able to keep my casserole down…"

"Admiration and respect for the individual from which we were derived is merely a way to show one's gratitude for…" Marshall began to spout, but Griffin and Julian persisted in making their unsightly noises, now joined by Daniel and Quinn so that Marshall couldn't even be heard.

"Okay-okay…" Carolyn chuckled, fingers closing around her wine glass, which she replaced on the table. "Marshall had the gratitude part right, anyway."

"When is he ever _wrong_?" Julian groused an undertone, and Mary distinctly saw Kim slip his wine glass out of his reach.

"Mary…" Carolyn began again, ignoring her less-than-tactful youngest son. "I know you and Sam have never been with us for Thanksgiving – which seems impossible after all these years – but we _do_ tend to play-up the 'what are you thankful for?' aspect after dinner," she informed her daughter-in-law with a well-timed wince, as though she knew Mary would not be in favor of the practice. "Feel free to poke fun after we're through, though," she offered.

Mary smiled as well as she could, knowing she would be doing nothing of the sort. Even this far into it, she wanted to be accepted by Marshall's family and still feared doing anything to ruin it. She tried to grin at Sam as well to get him on board, but he was looking quietly apprehensive, and she still couldn't pick out why.

"Who's going to start this year?" Daniel asked the group at large.

"_Perfect_ Marshall, probably…" Julian interjected and although everyone gave a genuine chuckle, Kim was obviously getting annoyed with her husband's run-amok mouth and nudged him hard with her elbow.

"I say we start at the other end," Marshall inclined his head up the table. "Claire Bear, what have you got?"

Mary peered around Griffin to see Claire perched in the head chair just as Carolyn was on their side, sitting on the edge of seat and ready to share.

"Well…" her eyes traveled between siblings, cousins, aunts, and uncles, and Mary could tell she was trying to get the words out just right. "I guess I'm thankful that…everybody got to come to dinner this year…" she settled on, attempting not to sound too cheesy. "Since, Mary and Marshall and Sam usually have to stay in New Mexico…"

Marshall sent his niece a winning smile and nodded to show his appreciation, which clearly pleased her.

"You go next mom…" Claire instructed her mother, who was sitting on her left.

Kim, like the good mother she was, said she was thankful for Daniel and Claire and clearly wanted to skip Julian's turn with the way he was spouting off, but he jumped right in once his wife was through.

"I'm gonna go with being thankful for this bitching bird…" he drawled, and fortunately he was incoherent enough that the cursing didn't entirely make its way through, but that didn't stop the eldest cousins from cracking up.

"God, Julian…" Kim rolled her eyes, and snatched his wine glass another time, for he had raised it in tribute to the turkey.

Mary flashed Marshall a look, but clearly this was commonplace at their dinner table and he didn't seem offended. Sam didn't quite understand all the fuss, but was smiling pleasantly at the laughter around the table.

"Julian, I'll take that as a compliment…" Carolyn decided diplomatically. "Dear, do you want to go lie down for awhile?" she asked distinctly to make sure he was paying attention. "You're looking tipsy…"

Just a little, Mary thought scornfully.

"I'm good…" he nodded in a would-be-reassuring way.

"Then _put a lid on it_," Kim implored him.

Mary watched as the other thank-you's made their way around the table, noticing how they purposefully jumped across so Mary, Marshall, Sam, and Carolyn would be last to go. Some gratitude was clearly designed to be amusing so the sap didn't become too overwhelming, for which Mary was grateful. She'd never been much for schmaltz.

"_I'm_ thankful mom and dad let me go to school three – apparently – _grueling_ hours away, even though I'm made to feel like my tuition will turn them into street people before I graduate…" Sarah voiced, half-serious, half-joking.

"Not gonna lie, gotta second that," Sophie chimed in. "Only without the 'three hours away' bit," she clarified. "And that I'd be _extra_ thankful if Dan chose Jayhawks over Wildcats come next August, otherwise he's a traitor to the cause just like Sarah…"

Both twins shot their younger cousin devious smiles from across the table, and it was clear Daniel was doing everything he could not to make a spectacle about the way they picked on him. Mary certainly couldn't blame him, and was grateful his 'thankful' speech was short and sweet, including his early graduation present of a laptop.

After that, she started to tune out Quinn and even Griffin as he sat next to her, trying to figure out what she was going to say. They didn't play any version of this game in her house, and she wasn't one to voice whatever rare sentiment she might possess.

Of course, there was the obvious answer. Marshall – Marshall alive, Marshall breathing, walking, being a husband and a father, something they could not have said just over a year ago. She didn't know if she had it in her to share it.

But it was upon her, whether she wanted the chance or not.

"What have you got for us, honey?" Carolyn asked gently.

Mary didn't like the way they were all looking at her, as if she had anything profound to say. She had no intention of going to pieces because of memories she'd rather got wiped away completely.

"Um…" she cleared her throat unnecessarily and took a sip of wine to avoid their prying eyes. "I think I may have to agree with Claire…" she knew this was a safe bet. "Nice to be together…" she prattled a little inarticulately. "And to have someone else cooking dinner," she added a light joke, and she knew she'd passed into the secure zone.

When she looked up, she saw Marshall smiling approvingly, telling her she'd done well. As it was, he opted to steal the response.

"Sounds like we're going to have a general consensus…" he mused. "There's nothing better than holidays with your family, although Mary and I do miss the gang in Albuquerque; it's great to switch it up."

"As if he'd say anything else…" Julian continued to babble, and Mary had to chuckle when Kim huffed loudly.

"See if I _ever_ let you drink again," she hissed.

"What about you, Sam?" Marshall asked his son to take the focus off his sloshed brother. "From whence does your gratitude spawn?"

Sam looked even more lost than Mary, which perplexed her. He was charming and knew how to behave around people; he certainly knew what being 'thankful' meant. Why was he balking and appearing nervous? Was there something on his mind, like his mother's, that he wasn't going to let escape?

Flatly, he looked up at his dad and then across at his mother. Mary felt his eyes lock in on hers, like he needed her to tell him what was right. All she could do was nod and try to help him relax.

"Whatever you want, bud," she told him easily. "Nobody's going to laugh."

She hoped that was true, with Julian in the mix. She wasn't even sure if that was Sam's concern, but she'd guessed. As it was, he turned back to Marshall.

"Like a…person…?" he questioned. "Or a thing, or…?"

"Person, place, or thing," Marshall assured him. "Nouns – all. Anything you feel like sharing."

Mary hoped he'd spill soon before everything became truly uncomfortable, knowing Carolyn would feel badly if she'd put him in an awkward position but Mary really couldn't figure out what his problem was.

"Well…" he focused on Mary again, starting in the way that Claire had. "Um…how about…?" he was looking for approval. "Jesse?" he finished. "Can I say him?"

"Of course," Marshall nodded vigorously. "That's a great thing to be thankful for," he continued. And then, to the rest of the table, "Jesse is Mary's sister Brandi's son," he informed them. "You guys remember – he's Sam's partner in crime," he joked, hoping to put his son at ease.

"I remember Jesse," Griffin cut in. "He was a cool kid; he's your best buddy, isn't he Sam?"

Sam nodded, "Yeah." And then, "Can I say something else too?" he turned to Carolyn, like he thought she was in charge.

"Absolutely!" she proclaimed, obviously thrilled he'd latched on, albeit abruptly. "I can't wait to hear!"

Sam swallowed, and Mary knew it was his inner-Marshall that allowed him to get over any shyness he might possess to voice what came next.

"I pick mom too…" his smile was unbearably sweet. "And dad…" he threw his father a look of utmost-admiration.

Mary felt her heart melting into a very sloppy, wet, and soggy puddle as Marshall managed to work his arm around Sam's back to pull him inside his chest. They were both smiling, Sam with his eyes shut and even if he hadn't gotten out quite what he wanted, he'd found a way.

"I'm thankful for you too, sheriff…" he murmured unabashedly. "Everyday…" his eyes flicked to Mary's.

"Goes for me too, Smush," she promised.

Fortunately, Carolyn sensed that if they let anything get too touchy-feely they'd all be bawling before dessert, and she spoke up to recall them to the final statements. Marshall undid himself from Sam to listen, the other guests blissfully silent.

"Well, it's hard to top that…" Carolyn admitted. "So I'll make it short."

"Short and sweet…" Julian blurred from somewhere halfway down.

"But…" his mother ignored him. "I'm thankful all my boys are under one roof," she said plainly. "It doesn't happen very often, but I've learned to…" she swallowed. "…To cherish it when it does. You boys have given me so much…"

"More than just a not-so-witty drunken sailor, I hope," Griffin interrupted, jerking his thumb at Julian. "I hope you'll remember we _can_ actually make you proud on other occasions…"

Carolyn laughed, "Yes, dear." And then she went on, "You boys brought me Connie and Kim and Mary…"

The final felt a telltale lump in her throat, much easier to form since the accident.

"Not to mention my grandchildren, so…" she waved a hand, perhaps to keep from shedding tears. "That's all there is to say," she finished abruptly. "This time last year, nobody knew if the thirteen of us would be together again so, it doesn't get any better than this."

She wrapped up and raised her glass, others doing the same in unison but Mary was thinking about the final words – she hadn't known if anybody would be brave enough to pose what they'd all been thinking, but Carolyn had gathered the courage and done it. There was something to be said for that.

From there, dishes began to clear; Mary opted to accompany Carolyn into the kitchen to start washing up, nothing better to do with the rest of the group, which was dispersing for some action on the Wii. Once she saw Sam was included, she decided it was safe to stay behind.

"Honey, you should go relax…" Carolyn told her predictably as Mary scraped the plates with less food into the garbage can. "I've got the dishes…"

"Turkey never made me as sleepy as the 'experts' claim," Mary scoffed to deflect the suggestion. "I think it's a myth…"

"Actually…" sang a familiar voice, prancing in with a bundle of used forks. "It's the tryptophan in turkey that causes you to feel tired or sleepy after the meal. Can't have the turkey without the tryptophan, so I suppose it's the workings of your internal system that reacts to the chemical."

Mary tried not to smile at his ridiculous factoids, but it didn't work. She leaned up from the trashcan and hit him lightly in the chest as she made her way to the sink.

"I didn't know you specialized in Thanksgiving trivia, you dolt," she invented wildly, and it didn't come out nearly as cool as she'd hoped.

Proving this, Marshall furrowed his brow and gave her a pompous grin.

"Dolt?" he questioned. "I have become accustomed to 'doofus.'"

"Speak to your son," she informed him, embarrassed that the new moniker had not gone off well. "He came up with it."

"Hmm…" Marshall hummed without further comment, opening the dishwasher and sliding the forks into their proper spots.

"You two…" Carolyn remarked fondly, as she often did in the presence of both Mary and Marshall. "Do you ever stop to take a breath? Honestly, I've got all this…"

"We're built to work," Mary chimed in, holding firm and running the water in the sink. "Hard-wired and born this way."

"Chip off the old block…" Carolyn reached up to tousle Marshall's hair in the back and he grinned; Mary knew she was referring to Seth.

The work ethic was, perhaps, one of the few things Marshall had inherited from his father – but a steadier, more restrained version of it. Seth had been all action, flying by the seat of his pants. Marshall was a thinker.

"That was some nice sentiment at dinner, mom…" the man continued upon hearing the reference. "I'm glad we're here this year too – makes Thanksgiving special."

Mary tried not to turn from the faucet, as to not interrupt the moment, and instead focused on what was going on in the living room while she scrubbed at a pot with hot water. Quinn was going up against Sarah in Wii bowling, and from the looks of it boys were fighting girls. Sam was perched on his knees in front of the television, paying rapt attention. Julian, Mary was amused to see, had crashed out and was snoring on the couch while Kim and Connie chatted it up and Griffin lounged nearby.

"Go Quinn!" Sam implored, bouncing up and down on his haunches. "You only have two left!"

"Yeah, but it's a seven-ten-split, man," Daniel informed him, leaning down beside his youngest cousin to point this out on the screen.

"What is that?" Sam wanted to know.

"See how there's one pin on that side and one on the other…" Daniel was patient as he drew a diagram in the air. "Really hard to hit…"

"So how will he do it?" Sam continued to press.

"Some freak of nature…" Daniel shook his head as Quinn eyed his lineup just a little too closely, as if there were really any killer way to get the last two pins. "Quinn, sometime this year…" Daniel turned from his spot to whine at the middle boy. "Sam's gonna be old by the time it gets to his turn."

"It's okay," Sam chimed in politely. "Really. I like to watch."

Mary grinned seeing this, not noticing how hot the water was becoming until she practically scorched her fingers. When she reached to turn it down, she involuntarily tuned back into Carolyn and Marshall who were speaking in hushed tones thinking that Mary had stopped listening.

"I know you miss your job, Marshall…" she was saying in a low voice laced with guilt. "And I wish more than _anything_ – for you – that you could go back…"

"Mom, you don't have to explain…"

"But I can't pretend I'm not relieved to know you're finally safe…" she was choking up again. "All those years worrying about your father, worrying about you…"

Mary tried not to hear, tried to turn the water back on so she wouldn't look like she was eavesdropping, but it was to no avail. Now that she'd gotten a little, she was getting it all.

"Mom, it's fine," Marshall insisted kindly, and Mary could picture him placing a hand on her shoulder. "I know that if you're thankful for anything, it's that you're not making yourself sick over it anymore. I am too – I'm glad I can finally give you that."

Marshall was so sweet; Mary wouldn't be surprised if he melted into sugar one day. He was always thinking about others, never about himself.

"But it must be so hard…" Carolyn wouldn't quit. "For Mary. Her work is so important to her…"

She _really_ needed to stop nosing around now, and she forced herself to listen back to the chattering discussion of electronic bowlers in the living room. Claire was up and Sam was standing nearby, having moved from his spot in front of the television.

"Which way do you think I should try, Sam?" she asked even though they weren't on the same team. "Swing left or right?"

Sam considered, "Right! I think," he hedged. "I mean…you probably know better…" he didn't have this game.

"No, I think you're right," Claire nodded confidently. "Let's see…"

Mary watched her swing the controller upward, both her and Sam watching the screen in high anticipation; the twins doing the same since the two of them and Claire were indeed on the same side. Mary just barely heard the computerized 'clack' come through the speakers that meant Claire had hit her mark.

"Spare!" Sarah shouted enthusiastically. "Not bad, Claire," as close to praise as she was going to get. "We're up six pins…"

But the two older boys seemed to have lost interest in the game and had started poking the passed-out Julian. Griffin was watching them and smirking; unable to tell them to quit it, but their mothers were engaged in conversation and didn't notice.

"We should stick stuff down his pants…" Daniel suggested, clearly relishing his father in such a position. "Like leftover stuffing or something…"

"Ew, Daniel…" Sarah wrinkled her nose as she heard. "You're so disgusting."

"And _so_ immature," Sophie couldn't resist pointing out.

"Since when did anyone have any fun being mature?" Daniel wanted to know, not taking any more of his cousin's crap.

"Is that all you care about?" Sophie asked snidely. "_Fun_?"

"Beats the alternative," Quinn interjected at his sisters, willing them to shut their mouths.

"You four sure are setting _some_ example for Sam, here…" Griffin mused casually, stretching out and folding his arms behind his head in the chair.

Sam had nothing to say to that and tried to smile, torn between the ambush on Julian and the time spent with Claire, who was wearing a little thin at the focus being divided again. She did better when everyone stayed on the same plane.

But Mary, who had been listening to all this, was pleased to hear that Carolyn and Marshall and put an end to their heartfelt conversation and were back to managing the dishes, her mother-in-law no less tearful at letting her emotions out.

The evening continued to soldier on, Mary staying in the kitchen with her husband despite Carolyn's protests, watching the time tick on and although Sam was enjoying the time spent with his cousins, he was beginning to tire out. They'd gotten in fairly late the night before and although Mary knew he would protest about having to turn in, it was in his best interests. She also thought that same submissive manner persisted, even as hard as he was trying to press on.

Flipping the water off while Carolyn wiped up the counters, the mother turned to Marshall to voice her thoughts.

"I'm gonna get Sam upstairs and ready for bed…" she told him; folding the towel she'd been using and draping it over the faucet. "Back me up if he fights, partner?"

"Copy that," Marshall teased with a loving smile.

Sighing, but resigned to getting Sam tucked in, Mary approached the living room with a small amount of trepidation. She was grateful to see that Sam had gone bleary-eyed watching Daniel and Quinn spar in some racing game, slumped in the arm of the couch.

"Hey Smush…" his mother called, and his lids flickered onto Mary's face. "It's about time for bed," she tried to be no-nonsense, but she didn't like pulling him away. "Say goodnight to everyone and I'll come up and tuck you in."

She was fortunate he still didn't envision himself too old to be tucked in, especially in someone else's home and he did attempt to protest but there was little fight in his voice.

"Do I have to?" he whispered groggily.

"Yeah," Mary nodded, side-stepping Daniel and Quinn on the floor and holding out a hand to hoist him up. "You're beat and we'll see everyone again tomorrow."

Sam seemed to think this was a decent consolation and allowed his fingers into Mary's palm to help himself off the couch. He was still in his tie and sweater, all thoughts of changing forgotten. She smoothed his hair, which was rumpled from lying in the pillow and then he made his rounds before going up. Mary only heard it through one ear, loving Sam's ability to spread the compassion – like his father.

"Goodnight Daniel…"

"Goodnight Quinn…"

"Night man; see you tomorrow…"

There was a fist pound.

"Sleep tight Sammy…" the twins crooned with a hug.

"Love you Sam…" that was Claire.

"I love you too Claire…"

Mary's heart felt fragile, remembering the effort these kids had put into cheering Sam up when Marshall had been under. They'd never changed; they always went the extra mile for the youngest.

"See you on the other side, Sam…" Griffin clapped him on the shoulder from where he was slumped in his chair. "Might skip the goodnights on Uncle Julian; he's already off into what promises to be a very kooky dreamland…"

Sam managed a giggle, "Okay."

He also opted to bypass Connie and Kim, whom neither he nor Mary had ever been that close to, but they sent him a smile and a wave for posterity. After that, Mary allowed herself to watch in full as Sam ambled into the kitchen to end with Carolyn, Marshall finishing the dishes nearby.

Sam gave her a hug before he even said anything, and Carolyn clearly appreciated it, turning the grandmotherly-instincts right on.

"You get a good night's sleep now…" she patted his back. "If you get thirsty, I left a cup in the bathroom for you…"

She would.

"I'm so glad you got to come stay with me," she pulled away. "I love you, honey."

"Me too," Sam nodded, and Mary couldn't help noticing that his face had fallen again, the same way it had during dinner.

"Come on Sam…" his mother cut in swiftly to distract from this while Marshall assured his son he'd be up to say goodnight soon.

Fortunately, Sam was adept at obeying and crossed the room to join Mary, who spontaneously took his hand and led him upstairs. They walked mostly in silence, even after they got to Marshall's bedroom, with its fading cowboy wallpaper and aged red comforter, having been washed so many times it had gone thin.

Mary worked to undo the knot in his tie, and then pulled the sweater over his head. He undressed himself the rest of the way while she dug in the dresser for clean pajamas. All she could come up with was a pair of plaid pants and an old faded T-shirt that had long since gotten too short but it worked for sleepwear. Tossing both to her son without a word, she wadded his fancy clothes into a ball and stuffed them in the hamper.

He was already climbing into bed by the time Mary turned around and she adjusted his covers as she sat on the edge, pulling them to his chest. He peeked out at her, his face swimming in a glowing orange-yellow hush from the lamp across the room.

She decided, now that they were alone, it was time to question the silence she'd let wrap them up.

"Are you all right, bud?" she asked without preamble, focusing on his big blue eyes that stared up at her from beneath the covers. "You've been kind of quiet tonight."

Sam shifted, eyes darting back and forth as they did when he didn't feel like sharing. It made him look like Brandi.

"Sam, you know you can tell me anything you're thinking," Mary said without even waiting for a response, but she knew that look. "Don't hold back. Let's hear it."

He sighed, but he knew how his mother was, and knew she wouldn't stop until she got the answer. It was what made her so different from Marshall. He never pushed – he guided so the individual could come in of their own volition.

"Well…" he exhaled again. "I kind of lied earlier – about what I was thankful for."

This was bewildering, considering Sam had seemed somewhat eager to share once he'd mentioned Jesse, and what he'd said was kind. To think to include his parents was thoughtful, something Sam was definitely known for.

"What do you mean you lied?" Mary furrowed her brow. "It seemed to me like you meant what you said."

"Well, I guess I didn't _lie_," he clarified. "Not really. But I didn't say what I really wanted to."

This made more sense, and Mary was unexpectedly anxious to hear whatever her son had omitted at the dinner table.

"So, what did you want to say?" she pressed.

As if it was that simple.

Sam shook his head, "It's bad."

Mary knew this could not be true. What could Sam possibly be grateful for that was _bad_? It didn't equate. He wasn't that kid.

"_Now_ you're lying," she tried to tease him. "Whatever you're thankful for, you can bet it's nothing so horrific."

Sam didn't look at all convinced, "I'm not sure."

Seeing him look so uncertain, so apprehensive about whatever he couldn't seem to get out, Mary knew she needed to soften her approach to get him to open up. Sometimes, going with the 'Marshall-method' did work wonders.

"Sam…" she laid a hand on his chest to make sure he was paying attention. "You can tell me. We can even keep it between us, if you want. Just spill."

He hemmed-and-hawed a little bit more, fiddling with the sheets under the comforter, eyes darting to the horses on the walls, before he came to his conclusion.

"Okay…" he agreed, and Mary was mindful to listen up. "I wanted…" his lips closed around the rest of the phrase, but eventually he seemed to think there was no good way to say it, and revealed all. "I wanted to say I was thankful that dad's not a Marshal anymore."

Mary didn't know how to respond. She knew where this brand of gratitude came from, and it made perfect sense. Mostly, she was astounded he wasn't the only one expressing that sentiment, judging by Marshall's and Carolyn's conversation earlier. She decided to coax a little further.

"Smush, why did you think that was bad?" she asked seriously.

"I don't know…" he shrugged as well as he could reclining, but it was obvious he knew exactly. "Because dad really loved being one and I know the reason he quit is because of me…"

"He did not quit because of you," Mary refuted this belief at once. "Neither one of us did. It was a choice we made all on our own."

Sam reached out a finger to scratch his nose, nothing profound to say to this; Mary guessed because he didn't believe it.

"And Sam, he would've understood if you'd said that…" she promised. "Everybody would have…"

"Even after I said I didn't want to be a Marshal when I grow up?" he murmured skeptically.

He was right. She'd fooled herself with that 'everyone will be fine with it' crap, because they proved they weren't; whether it was intentional or not. Sam was smart enough to know he'd said something wrong, or else just something off.

"You don't have to be a Marshal," was all she could think of to ease these thoughts. "You don't even have to know what you want to be at all," she rephrased. "It was a dumb question. You're eight years old; you have a ludicrous amount of time before you have to decide."

"I guess…" he merged into acceptance halfway.

"For the record though," Mary couldn't resist bringing up. "Dad _is_ still a Marshal," she emphasized. "So am I. We just don't do the same work we used to anymore. You know that."

"Yeah…" he agreed. "And I'm glad you still are, because it's a cool job," now he was being kind. "I'm just glad you aren't working with criminals anymore, because I don't want dad to get hurt anymore."

It made perfect sense, and Mary certainly couldn't fight him on it; he had completely sound reasoning, after almost losing his father so young. She still thought it was somewhat amusing that he worried about Marshall getting blasted, but not Mary.

"Well, bud…" she was never anything but honest, and thought the truth might help some and hoped it didn't inspire guilt. "If we're talking about lying here, I can't tell you I don't miss it, because I do."

Sam nodded his understanding.

"There are days I miss it more than I let on," she admitted. "But knowing that you feel safe and that you're not worrying yourself sick is more important," she took a leaf out of Marshall's book with the phrasing. "It'll always be more important."

He nodded again, and Mary liked the release she was sure he felt from letting some of it out. He was everything like her and Marshall, but everything unlike them all at the same time. She was trying to make her peace with the idea of him being an air-conditioner salesman like Mark, if that was what he so desired down the road.

"If you _want_ to tell dad about this…" Mary continued abruptly. "You can. He _will_ get it. Everybody else might not, but I promise that he'll understand."

Her son nodded for the third time and allowed a hefty yawn to escape, pulling his hand out of the blankets to stifle the image. He blinked a few times and Mary could tell he was worn out; he hadn't liked the airplane ride the day before, and spending so much of dinner concerned about what he might say hadn't helped.

"Tell me you had at least some measure of a good time today…" his mother needed to know. "With the brood and all."

The fourth nod was more emphatic, but sadder, "I wish we never had to leave here," he declared in a tiny voice. "I wish we could just stay…"

Mary, albeit slightly surprised that he felt so far one direction, knew he didn't mean it as much as he said or even thought. Kansas, in his mind, was the soil of fairytales; of older, cooler, strapping cousins, of goofy uncles, and a warm and doting grandmother. It was the land without guns and badges; without the worry of which parent was going to hit the ground next.

"You'd miss Albuquerque," she assured him, rubbing his belly lightly in hopes that he'd shut his eyes. "You'd miss Jesse and Brandi and Peter…"

"And Jinx…" he yawned again and Mary's rhythm did the trick; he closed his lids and sunk into the pillows.

"Well, maybe not Jinx," his mother teased, and he offered a small smile.

"But I just wish we could see them all the time…" he whispered as he drifted away. "I get sad when I think about having to leave again…"

Mary transferred her hand to his hair and began to brush it across his forehead; this was why he'd been so quiet. He'd been so caught up in having to say goodbye down the road, he wasn't entirely enjoying the here and now. But as she watched him settle into gentle exhales, reveling in the way Mary ran her long fingers across the hair falling in front, smoothing it over and over, she realized there was a lot of happiness in that sadness too. He wouldn't miss it so much if it didn't make him so painfully thrilled.

"You know Sam…" she said in the quietest of whispers, his eyes still shut. "My dad used to tell me…" she swept that off. "Well, all sorts of things about the stars…" she continued. "And I never knew what to believe; to me they were just this crazy, completely random smattering of dots in the sky…"

"Mmm…" but nothing more.

She kept stroking his hair.

"Until dad – your dad – told me that, even in the daytime, the stars are always there…" she remembered that conversation so well.

It had happened in this house. Just down that hall, just beyond those stairs, just through that kitchen to the deck outside. It had been a cool and damp April that year, in the house of all things wonderful.

"They're always there, even if you can't see them…" she went on, the stroking becoming automatic now, Sam's hair like waves in the water through her fingers. "That's kind of what I think of – when I'm away from somebody I'd rather be with…"

She was talking to herself at this point, more than she was Sam.

"When Marshall and I used to have to go on the road by ourselves and drive in the dark…" she murmured. "When I missed my dad or…" her voice had gone mystical. "When Marshall was in the hospital…"

Always there – always. Even when you can't see them. They're always there.

"Even if you're not with Grandma and…Griffin and Julian and your cousins…"

She turned back to Sam to finish the thought, but knew at once by his calm, steady breathing that he'd fallen asleep while she'd been talking. His chest rose and fell beneath her left hand; she could feel the pattern of his ribs through his shirt, he was so weedy. She ran her right hand over his gorgeous hair one more time, slower with each passing caress, and then let her fingers rest on his cheek. Cherishing that handsome, innocent face.

Mary heard the door as she leaned to press her lips to his forehead; the kiss was long and when she slipped herself free, she couldn't resist one more fluttering peck before she whispered her farewell.

"Night bud…"

She knew Marshall was standing in the frame watching, so she gave him a quiet smile when she stood, venturing across the room to hit the lamp. He spoke before she pulled the chain.

"He crash out?" his voice was soft too.

Mary nodded as she killed the lights.

"Yeah," she murmured, sidling out behind him and into the darkened hallway. "He's had a busy couple of days."

They spoke in hushed tones outside his doorway, as if somebody might be listening in, neither having enough sense to move to the guestroom.

"He was worried you'd be upset if he said he was thankful you're not shooting up the lowlifes anymore."

She'd known Sam wouldn't have the nerve to tell, and Marshall had the right to know.

"I can't blame him…" Marshall whispered. "He and mom, they're in the same boat."

"Yeah, I heard," Mary crossed her arms over her middle. "Guess we put relief on a lot of plates by hanging it up."

"Well, mom's been holding out for years between me and dad…" Marshall conceded. "I owe her that, after what happened."

Mary knew the shame still resided in Marshall for what he looked at as 'letting' himself get hurt, and Thanksgiving was an occasion none of them had foreseen being a breeding ground for memories of such a nature. Between Carolyn and Sam, she didn't want him feeling badly too.

"No matter how many mistakes you think you made, you'll never hear from me that it was on your watch you ended our careers."

It wasn't very inspiring, or indeed very insightful, but you couldn't stop Marshall from appreciating it no matter what.

"God, I love you…" he breathed dramatically. "Sometimes, I think I used up all my own damn good luck when I snagged my snarky partner…"

He wove his arms around her waist, pressing them next to one another, the shadows in the darkness enveloping them in a secure, silhouette-heavy cocoon. Mary had never felt so safe when all the lights had been extinguished, when the darkness turned to black.

"Don't be trying to romance me, doofus…" she hissed in his ear, falling back into his tried-and-true nickname, and Marshall definitely picked up on it.

"Ah…" he mused, slipping his lips onto her skin in a sweet, gentle kiss. "There really is _no_ place like home."

**A/N: Hope you liked this one with the whole gang involved! They're a good bunch to write!**


	19. Chapter 19

**A/N: Hey, jekkah! Thanks for the influx of reviews! I loved reading them!**

XXX

_Nine Years, May:_

"Run, doofus! You're a US Marshal for Christ's sake – move your ass!"

"Jesse, tag him – tag him!"

"Oh! Not again!"

"Nice going, Poindexter…"

"I'll get him out, mom; it'll be no sweat…"

Mary leaned down, hands on her knees to try and catch her breath, planning her next strategy, glaring at the helpless Marshall confined to the tree's trunk at the other end of the field. Through the slits in her watering eyes, she saw Marshall's pajama top tied in a spectacular knot to a stray stick and posted high in said tree. Looking over her shoulder, she glimpsed the same thing with Peter's shirt yards away.

"Smush, this is getting desperate…" his mother heaved, annoyed with her dripping nose and the way the temperature had dropped with the sun. "You think we're gonna be able to snag that flag without daylight?"

She was careful not to take her eyes off Brandi, Peter, and Jesse conferring on the other side, watching to make sure Mary or Sam did not attempt to barrel over and rescue Marshall. An hour and a half of capture the flag had fast become grueling.

"What if I tried to get dad back and grab the flag at the same time?" her son was murmuring in her ear.

"You're not tall enough, bud…" she told him for the fifth or sixth time. "That's why they put it up there; so it would have to be me or dad…"

Sneaky little Alpert's. They'd thrived on the mountain air so heartily it was almost sickening.

"Okay…" Sam conceded, also crouching against his knees to make sure their plan would not be overheard. "But he knocked it lower; I bet if I reached I could get it. What if I tried to get Jesse to run at the same time?" he suggested.

"I don't want to risk losing both of you…" Mary shook her head. "I don't have a chance in hell otherwise."

Sam was used to her cursing and brushed off the phrase, still intent on his idea of a double-bolt, but another thought was forming quickly and he didn't hesitate to voice it.

"What if you and I ran at the exact same time?" he wanted to know, quietly calculating the distance in that inquisitive way of his. "You could fake them out and I could get dad. Jesse might try to run if he thinks there's no one over here…"

Jesse had been very bold in his attempts to take custody of the red T-shirt flying in the wind, but was caught almost every time. Peter had been very skilled at releasing him.

"All right…" Mary stood; not knowing what else there was to do, reaching to shake her hair back even though it was already ponytailed. "You head for dad and I'll try to school Brandi so you've got time…"

It had been a long day, and full of much more frivolity than Mary was used to. When Marshall had suggested a weekend trip camping at the Cibola National Forest in the Sandia Mountains, his wife had tried to put her foot down in adamant refusal. A part of her still cringed at climbing into the tents that night, but the longer she watched Sam and Jesse revel in all the wilderness, Marshall spouting wisdom to his heart's content, she couldn't help thinking it wasn't such a terrible thought. A getaway from the everyday was sometimes exactly what they all needed.

If nothing else, it was a sight watching Brandi try to brave the terrain but then again, Mary wasn't exactly Annie Oakley either. At this point, she was mostly getting cold. The temperature had fallen insanely fast when the sun had gone down.

"Let's do this thing, Sam…" she instructed hoarsely from all the running she'd been doing. "On three…" she spoke under her breath, but at least Team Alpert couldn't read her lips anymore in the fast-approaching darkness.

Sam nodded his recognition, eyes focused on his father waving comically for help at the other end.

Mary decided to be a smart-ass and declared, "…Three!"

Fortunately, Sam was quick on the uptake and took off in a sprint, Mary the opposite direction to distract Brandi. She just barely saw her son take a well-timed curve to spiral out of Peter's reach before she was within inches of Brandi's tagging hand, but her reflexes as a US Marshal kept her from becoming flag-bait.

"Too slow, Squish!" she taunted, weaving this way and that among Brandi's flailing fingers; her little sister simply wasn't fast enough to snatch her.

If she kept this up, she was going to have a shot at the flag based on the direction she was going. Sam had managed to smack Marshall's hand, which meant he was free to lead him to safety, but she heard Peter's ill-timed bellow of encouragement seconds too late.

"Jesse, RUN!"

That head of blonde hair was like its own firefly whirring and flapping in the dusk.

"Shit…!" Mary swore for the second time, still pounding every which way to keep Brandi from tagging her; totally out of Brandi's reach but also nowhere near the tree that held the flag. "MARSHALL!"

The father and his son didn't see Jesse until his fingers had already closed around the stick that held the shirt, teetering precariously from the branch of the tree.

"Whoa!" she heard her husband in the distance. "SOS, sheriff! Corner the outlaw!"

Mary spared herself a second too long to see if Jesse got nabbed and after that, it was a complete blur as the shapes spun and twirled in the darkness.

"Gotcha!"

Brandi had managed to sweep her around the ankles, although the younger sister was not exactly skilled in clotheslines and they both landed in a heap in the grass.

"That was graceful…" Brandi chuckled.

"Damn it…" Mary swatted at nothing. "Squish, get off!"

"Jesse, come on!" Peter squalled. "Go fast! Pump your legs!"

"Not on my watch, sticky fingers!" Marshall declared. "You're in for an ambush!"

Mary heard the squeal that meant Marshall had grabbed his nephew, and lifted her eyes just enough to see him flip Jesse upside-down in midair, the flag dangling helplessly in his grasp. Jesse was laughing too hard to care that he'd just landed himself in the proverbial jail, and Marshall took full advantage by holding him securely by his belly and tickling his ribs with his free hand. Jesse shrieked and spun on the spot, face turning red from being upside-down.

"Jess, throw it!" Peter continued to cheer him on, and Mary was about to give Brandi a swift kick if she didn't get off her back soon.

Jesse was visibly reluctant, as Sam was snatching at the thin air trying to get his colors back, Marshall purposefully holding Jesse too high for his son to manage it. Peter jumped to the head of the boundary in hopes that Jesse would send the fabric flying through the wind.

"Brandi, I swear to God…" Mary grumped; knowing she could easily fling her sister onto her back, if not for the fact that she knew it would hurt her. "If you don't get up in about two seconds…"

But the climax happened so fast there was barely time to watch. Jesse, in a moment of desperation, heaved to his father and the minute he let go, Sam tore to the other side so fast it was like someone had blasted him from a cannon. With Peter occupied trying to reclaim the flag as well as his son and Brandi busy with Mary, Sam had the first clear shot all night.

Spitting the grass out of her mouth Mary joined right in, "Go Sam! Go!"

Brandi immediately tried to let Mary free, knowing she'd been confined to 'jail' anyway, but now was the time for pinning. The older sister flipped the younger onto the ground and used Marshall's method of distraction – tickling.

Brandi gave an ear-splitting shriek, "Mary! Mary!" she managed between giggles and breaths.

"You want to fight dirty Squish; this is how we do it…"

"No fair!" she proclaimed beneath Mary's scrabbling fingers. "I'll forfeit!"

Mary didn't even care at this point. Sam had seized the flag, outfoxing Peter, and was already looping to trot back to their side. Jesse crashed to the ground, out of Marshall's grasp, and pushed himself up with reflexes like a cat but his dad had abandoned their treasure and sprinted for his nephew.

"Get him dad!" Jesse squealed. "He's almost there!"

Too late. Sam had taken a flying leap, inches from Peter's fingers, and catapulted over the boundary to victory.

"YES!" Mary cried triumphantly, allowing Brandi to wiggle away. "Team Shannon!"

"Way to go, Sam!" Marshall congratulated. And then, "Incredible fight, Jess…" he shook his nephew's hand courteously. "Distracting the enemy is a diversionary tactic for the ages."

"I _almost_ had you…" Jesse proclaimed breathlessly. "That was the closest I got…"

"You did," Marshall nodded.

"Yeah-yeah…" Brandi grumbled good-naturedly as she got up, brushing the grass from her jeans. "All Team Shannon proved is they're good _ticklers_…" she declared snidely.

"Team Alpert needs to work on their clothesline…" Mary informed her sister even as she sauntered back to her husband and son. "That was some weak-ass throw-down."

She reached Marshall and planted him with a sloppy winning kiss, feeling him smile beneath it. She took the flag from Sam and waved it high above their heads – a symbol of their conquest and Sam himself whooped loudly until his parents split apart.

Still reeling from all the bolting – chastising herself for how woefully out-of-shape she'd become – Mary noticed Jesse nearby and couldn't help wishing, somewhere far beneath her competitive ire, that he could've come out on top too.

"Good game, Jess," she offered him a high five, which he accepted. "Real horse-race there at the end."

The pleasantries started to dwindle fast after that, unable to see anything but outlines and silhouettes in what had fast become nighttime. It was too cool in the altitude of the mountains for lightning bugs to be shimmering about and instead, the croakings of frogs came in guttural tones in the bushes. There was even a brook below the ridge where they perched, swishing and babbling smoothly through the trees.

Marshall had managed to scent them out a fairly secluded area of three tents squashed together; Sam's and Jesse's shelter smashed between the two sets of parents. The boys had begged to have their own quarters, and that was the condition placed.

As the group trooped back to their grounds, they saw the fire had snuffed out since dinner and Marshall began to relight the lanterns, handing flashlights to Sam and Jesse.

"You two put your pajamas on…" Brandi ordered as they approached, once they had enough of a beam to speak by. "Careful not to bump into each other…"

"Make _sure_ you pee before you turn in," Mary wagged a disciplinary finger across their faces while Jesse let the flashlight roam all over the damp ground. "I don't want either of you squatting at four A.M."

"As if they need to squat…" Peter intoned, and both boys erupted in fits of giggles at all the bathroom discussion, not to mention having to go in the woods.

Jesse opted to take the first shift and mark a tree while Sam ducked into their tent to change, both married couples doing the same.

"You sure they're gonna be okay in there…?" Mary voiced to her husband amongst the flickering lanterns he'd posted in their tent, pulling her shirt over her head. "The last thing I need is CPS calling because I abandoned my child in the wilderness."

"They'll be fine," Marshall reassured her, jumping into his drawstring pants. "I'm more worried about you," he taunted.

"_Me_?" Mary was appropriately incredulous at the take, wrinkling her nose while she emerged from the neck of her sweatshirt. "You don't think I can take the not-so-great outdoors for a spin?"

"You've never been much of a fan of 'roughing it,'" Marshall reminded her. "I'm not saying you _can't_…" he clarified as he saw Mary open her mouth to protest. "It's more of a preference thing."

"Well, if we're talking preferences," she mused, stepping over to help Marshall work an arm into his own sweatshirt, for he kept hitting his head on the tarp of the tent. "Who actually _wants_ to schlep around in the boondocks like some Paul Bunyan?"

"Um…" Marshall obviously couldn't stop himself from chuckling.

Mary felt her signals going off when she saw how rumpled his hair had become after he got his neck through the shirt. It was always so perfectly styled that it was _always_ a turn on when he succumbed to getting messy. Maybe it was the mountain air.

"Paul Bunyan was lumberjack…"

"Whatever…" Mary waved this off, pretending not to listen.

"Not to mention, nobody knows if he actually existed; he is what they call a legend of the tall tale…"

"Such a show-off…" his wife moaned, bending to unzip her sleeping bag, arranging it on top of the grass.

"But he did have a faithful animal companion," Marshall just couldn't quit. "Babe the Blue Ox."

"_Babe the Blue Ox_?" Mary could not leave that one alone as she whirled around from her crouched position to stare. "Where the hell do you come up with this shit, doofus?"

"Blame the folklore," he joshed, copying her in the sleeping bag movements.

Just then, Mary heard Sam shout out the flap to her right, his voice echoing in all the wide open space beyond.

"Jesse, see if you can aim next time and make letters!"

Good lord.

"Sam, hush up and go!" his mother hollered, not going to let him get away with being a total boor even miles away from civilization.

"All right, all right…" she heard the faint sound of his acceptance, the zip, and the unmistakable noise of Jesse readying himself for sleep next door.

Marshall finished heaping flannel blankets among their sleeping bags, positioning the lanterns in good places for the morning, rolling Mary a flashlight in case she needed it during the night. Brandi stuck her head in twice to confirm that they boys had everything they needed, and fortunately Sam returned from his bathroom excursion before the younger sister could fret anymore.

Mary was pleased once the guys were all burrowed into their sleeping bags, peering mischievously over the tops and hiding their wily grins which meant sleep wasn't actually going to occur anytime in the near future. Nobody was surprised; they behaved the same way at home when they were shut up in Sam's room.

"Goodnight you two…" Peter sang, slapping on his bare feet back to he and Brandi's tent.

"You make sure to come get one of us if you need _anything_…" Brandi implored, leaning over their splayed legs to kiss both their hands. "We're right next door, so if you hear a noise or get scared…"

"Brandi, enough with the regulations," Mary griped, as if she hadn't been going through the same thing. "They're good."

"All right…" she whispered in a small voice. "Sleep well…" and then she followed Peter.

"Okay men…" Marshall declared in his best serious voice once Brandi had disappeared. "Don't stay up _too_ late. Hope to still see you _alive_ by morning…" he growled menacingly and Sam began to laugh.

"He's kidding," the son informed his cousin at once. "Honestly, he's not serious."

"I know," Jesse bobbed his head up and down. "Night Marshall. Goodnight Mary."

"Behave," Mary warned before she ventured to the adjoining tent behind Marshall. "Don't let Smush have you wetting your sleeping bag with lame ghost stories, Jess."

She could still hear them giggling long after she climbed into the tent and zipped the flap closed, could listen to their lively hushed whispers beyond the canvas, even beyond Marshall extinguishing the lamps and cloaking them in the darkness.

"Jesse…" Sam whispered, flicking on his flashlight at once and elbowing up on his pillow, floating the beam onto his cousin's face. "Check this out…"

The older dug down deep in his sleeping bag, groping among the folds and finally emerged with fingers clenched tight and pulsing.

"What is it?" Jesse asked excitedly.

Sam handed the light to Jesse, shielded his balled hand with the palm of his other, before opening up to reveal a croaking, very much vibrating frog. His face was gleeful in the small ray of the flashlight.

"Whoa!" Jesse breathed. "Where'd you get him?"

"Down by the creek," Sam replied swiftly, smacking his hands back together so the amphibian wouldn't escape. "I ran down there to go to the bathroom and picked him up."

"It's a frog?" Jesse questioned, reaching out to place a tentative finger on the creature's head.

"I think it's actually a toad," Sam corrected in his low, secretive voice. "See all the bumps on his back? Dad said frogs are mostly smooth on top…"

"He's all warty," Jesse giggled and Sam laughed too, shooting each other cautious glances to be quiet, stifling their mouths with their hands.

"Toads don't have teeth either," Sam continued once they'd calmed down, examining their catch with a scrutinizing eye. "I can't tell whether this one does or not, but…"

"What are you going to do with him?" Jesse asked eagerly, knowing his older cousin had all the great ideas.

"I wonder if I could keep him in my bag and take him home!" Sam fabricated. "I could take care of him once we got back to Albuquerque."

"Mary would be really mad…" Jesse whispered, half-excited and half-fearful.

"Yeah," Sam shrugged, stroking the top of the toad's head like he was some prized cat. "But she gets mad about everything, and I bet dad would be cool with it."

He wasn't sure if this was actually true, but Marshall was a safer bet than Mary when it came to something like this.

"Besides, I've always wanted a pet…" the older went on, still keeping his voice low, the toad settling nicely in his palm. "Mom hates dogs, and I'd rather have something like him anyway…"

"How do you know it's a _him_?" Jesse posed recklessly.

The boys erupted in a fit of giggles once more, unable to suppress the amusement they felt at considering such a thing. Tonight, everything was funny. Everything was new and exciting and daring; no holds-barred, out here among the trees and the big open skies.

Back in their tent, Mary knew without even looking at Marshall that he was reveling in what he heard next door. When she did turn, she could definitely tell by the way his eyes locked on the blank sheet above them, arms folded behind his head as he listened to the sounds of his son and nephew.

And Marshall was never one to keep quiet about anything heartfelt.

"I love listening to them laugh…" he whispered to his wife. "It's like…snowflakes or tiger stripes or the stars. It's never exactly the same. Always different – always magical."

Mary decided to play him, just to see what he'd do.

"Sleeping on this ground is going to be murder on my ass come dawn."

He turned just slightly under his covers, meeting her with his probing blue stare even through the dark. She couldn't stop herself from smirking.

"Don't pretend not to completely drink in my philosophic assessments," he boasted. "I know what you're thinking."

"Do you now?" Mary tried to squelch a yawn. "I would hope you might know _one_ or two things after nine years."

"Seventeen," he corrected sleepily, nudging into her groove so they were able to wind their arms around one another, regardless of being in separate sleeping bags.

"Huh?" Mary murmured against his chest, feeling like some sort of caterpillar in their severance. "Seventeen what?"

"Years…" he closed his eyes against her. "We were partners for eight…" it was his turn to yawn. "Before Sam…"

Before Sam? _Before_ Sam? Mary scarcely remembered that such a time had existed. She seemed to have sprung into her true being the minute her son had landed here on God's green earth.

"Guess you're right…" she said anyway, wondering in the back of her mind what kind of quarters they'd be in if she tried to invade Marshall's sleeping bag.

"I surely never get tired of hearing _that_," Marshall informed her.

Mary had nothing left to say to that, deciding maybe it was best to leave it all laid out for tonight – with the owls hooting in the distance, the even hum of the brook below, the wind whistling in the trees above.

"Night Marshall…" was all she could say to wrap it up, her voice muffled inside his shirt. "Love you…"

He squeezed her tighter and kissed the crown of her head.

"Love you too, babe."

"Not the Blue Ox, I hope…" Mary joked.

And Marshall gave a boyish giggle too.

XXX

Marshall woke to the sound of chirping, peeping birds and the smallest slivers of sunlight shining through the thin places in the tent. His lower back – right around his scar, to be precise – was feeling a little stiff from having resided on the ground, but all-in-all he felt very refreshed.

And cold.

He'd been burrowed in a sleeping bag, blanket, as well as a sweatshirt and Mary for most of the night and he was still chilly. He could tell even through his many layers that the ground was moist with early morning dew, and felt certain his cheeks had gone pink. Even for May, a sunrise up here in the mountains warranted quite a temperature drop. It likely wouldn't warm up until noon.

Rolling over with a groan, Marshall saw that Mary had nudged away from him in her sleep. She was sprawled on her stomach in her sleeping bag, just the top of her hair visible beneath the folds. He would venture a guess she was zonked out, knowing it had taken her awhile to fall asleep the night before.

Deciding he might as well have breakfast waiting when the others arose, Marshall slid himself out of his sleeping quarters, being mindful not to disturb Mary, and tiptoed to the flap of the tent, unzipping it as quietly as possible.

The sun was blinding outside their sanctuary, rising spectacularly over the higher mountains in the distance, and Marshall had to shield his eyes with his hand as he rummaged among the bags for something good to make on the fire. He knew it couldn't be much after seven in the morning and he didn't expect the others for awhile.

That was until he turned and saw that Sam's and Jesse's flap was unzipped partway, like someone had carelessly left it open as they dipped out for a morning hike. Curious, Marshall stepped over and pulled the stray portion aside to stick his head in.

Jesse was there, curled on his side and still asleep. Sam was gone.

Every explosive that usually lay dormant inside of Marshall started going off; like a legion of fireworks had blasted to pieces in the pit of his stomach. Where was he? Had he gotten up to go to the bathroom? Had he taken a stroll? Had _someone_ taken him for a stroll? Had something happened to him?

Marshall internally talked himself off the ledge, knowing he could not come undone and start shouting for his son or Mary would have a complete fit. He reminded himself he was a US Marshal – the best in the world at finding people.

Abandoning the campsite and hoping nobody else stirred while he was gone – or maybe he hoped they would; they'd just think he and Sam were together – he shuffled out in the field in which they'd played capture the flag the night before. He had on only his socks and his feet were starting to go numb, but immediate relief took place of the horror when he saw the figure of his boy crouched among the grove of trees overlooking the stream below. His brown hair was sticking up in the back and he wore a navy hooded sweatshirt and the grey pants he'd gone to sleep in.

Sighing, he jogged up to Sam and kneeled as well, trying not to startle him but fully intending to give a talking-to about wandering off.

"Sam…" he whispered as he knelt. "What are you doing, man? You scared me…"

But Sam paid no attention and instead scolded his father.

"Shh!" he hissed, putting a finger to his lips. And then, "Look!"

Marshall followed his son's index finger to where he directed, and saw immediately why he was supposed to be quiet. Below the ridge and drinking in the stream were two deer – likely a doe and her young, sipping sedately and calmly from the churning waves.

Marshall was surprised at how close Sam was able to get. The lip that extended over the brook wasn't that high, but the deer didn't even seem to notice him.

"Wow…" his dad breathed, impressed. "How long have you been up here?"

"Not very long," he informed him quietly. "But they walked right in, and the mom looked right at me – I was sure she'd run away – but she didn't."

Marshall sunk into a cross-legged position beside his son and put an arm around his back, worried about him getting cold; his nose was dripping as Mary's had been last night. But it seemed he couldn't have cared less. He was enraptured with the creatures that grazed beneath.

"Look at the little one…" Sam mused so softly Marshall almost didn't hear. "He can't even walk…"

It was true the young did indeed have a Bambi-esque quality about him; his legs buckled at the slightest movement and then he would rather clumsily scoot himself back onto land when his hooves landed in the water.

"But see how his mom nudges him with her nose to get him to stand back up?" Marshall pointed out. "She's protecting him…"

This, for whatever bizarre reason, recalled Sam to he and Jesse's discussion the night before and he turned to his father for the answer – this time, having to do with deer.

"How do you know it's a _him_?"

Marshall wasn't looking at Sam, so he couldn't know this was meant to be amusing, and just powered on with his response.

"I don't know, actually," he admitted in a hushed voice. "He or she isn't old enough for me to tell from this distance – if it was to grow antlers, we'd know it was a boy."

"Only the boys have antlers?" Sam wanted to know, curious as usual.

"That's right," Marshall nodded. "Some of the girls have a kind of stub on top, but not exactly antlers."

"That's why the mom doesn't have antlers…" Sam decided as his gaze found the female once more, who seemed to be securitizing her klutzy young with a critical eye to make sure he – or she – did not go splay-legged again.

The men sat in silence for a few moments, watching the two deer get their fill of the water, which never seemed to be enough. The fawn eventually became disinterested and started poking its wet nose into the grass for something to eat. Marshall loved the way the sun dappled its white spots scattered all over the brown of its coat.

"How come we never see deer back at home?" Sam finally murmured, scooting himself onto Marshall's knee and into the warmth of his sweatshirt. "We aren't that far away…"

"They can't survive in the city," Marshall told him dispiritedly. "Although, I worry about them up here too. They're probably hunted…"

Sam looked startled, flicking his eyes onto Marshall's from where his head rested beneath his dad's chin. Marshall saw that they were wide with only a minimal amount of alarm, like he understood what he'd just heard but didn't want to believe it.

"Hunted?" he questioned softly. "You mean…people shoot them?"

Marshall nodded solemnly, "Sadly, yes. People eat deer meat – just like chicken or turkey."

Sam did not look as though he thought the comparison should be made between these gentle creatures and squawking, obnoxious poultry and went silent again. Marshall had always been amazed by Sam's patience, nothing like that of the ordinary child. Once he'd reached four or five years of age, he'd been able to entertain himself for hours on what most would consider the everyday or mundane.

This morning, he was proving that in spades and the father enjoyed the weight of his son practically in his lap. His affectionate nature was weaning as he grew older.

"I can't believe how quiet it is up here…" Sam eventually spoke up again. "No cars or people that make all the noise where we live…"

"It is definitely secluded," Marshall agreed. "Breathtaking," he added for good measure.

Sam nodded as though he thought so too, but Marshall felt him start as his eyes bounced to a spot further down the stream. Marshall was about to ask what all the fuss was about, especially after his boy had commented on the lack-of-noise, when he saw exactly what had made Sam jump.

Striding through the bank on the opposite side, lightly prancing its elegant hooves through the tumbling water was an enormous, magnificent buck – antlers proud and prominent.

Sam began to giggle softly he was so enchanted, but also clutched at Marshall's neck as though the sight of something so large and horned was a bit scary.

"Shh…" Marshall cautioned, allowing him to hang onto his shoulders even though Sam's knees were now cutting into his crossed legs because he'd sat up. "We're good so long as we're quiet…"

"What is that?" Sam murmured, barely moving his lips because he was so close to Marshall's ear. "It's a boy deer, because he has antlers," he reflected. "Is he the dad?"

"Maybe," Marshall was careful not to raise his voice the slightest inch, appreciating Sam's discretion. "A male is a buck or a stag, a female is a doe and a baby or young is a fawn…" he schooled, taking the opportunity for what it was.

"So…" Sam couldn't seem to take his eyes away from the scene. "That's a buck?"

Marshall nodded and the pair of them gazed in silence to see the buck approach the doe and their young. The longer Marshall watched, the more he thought Sam might be right. The tender way the male sniffed and clopped around the female, not to mention the prodding he did of the clumsy fawn convinced him they might be a family. He didn't know much about deer mating, but it was like a live-action Bambi in their own backyard.

Sam obviously couldn't keep his awe to himself for long and forced out some more words.

"He's _huge_…" the boy whispered in wonder. "He won't spear us, will he?" he didn't sound frightened even as he eyed the antlers.

"I doubt it," Marshall assured him. "I would think buck would be just as skittish as deer, although I'm not sure."

But at that moment, their gawking came to an abrupt end – likely from the chill in the air, Sam was forced to cough and sniffle somewhat loudly and this proved Marshall's theory about how edgy the animals could be. Their ears perked up and the mother bolted, followed rather ungracefully by her baby and the stag lumbered after into the shelter of the trees.

Sam, despite his obvious disappointment, was clearly relieved to be able to speak normally again.

"Aw…!" he moaned loudly. "I spooked them!"

He fell back off Marshall's knee rather dramatically, sprawling himself on his back in the grass, staring glassy-eyed at the forget-me-not-blue above that matched his eyes.

"You got to look at them a _long time_ though, sheriff," Marshall couldn't resist emphasizing. "A lot of deer will run just by the look or scent of a human, let alone the sounds they make. You were very respectful of them," he praised like the proud father he was.

"Respectful…" Sam murmured, like he was breathless from holding himself so tightly to observe, still spread-eagled on his back.

"Yes," Marshall reinforced. "You know what that means."

"Yeah…" Sam agreed. "I just didn't think of it that way."

"Well, start thinking!" Marshall proclaimed, and he stuck his long fingers in Sam's gut, making him propel upward, clutching at his midsection with laughter.

He managed to wiggle himself away, panting and lounging on his elbow to peer at his dad. Marshall loved the way his hair tousled itself in the wind, making his waves more heightened, which differed him from Mary. She preferred it a little more groomed, or at least combed.

"It got cold up here…" Sam voiced, giving an intended shiver and stuffing his hands in the pouch of his sweatshirt.

"Put your hood up…" Marshall teased, knowing he didn't care for the look and reaching to do it himself.

Sam ducked away again and eventually saw it was going to be easiest for him to escape his father's wrath if he just stood up and flocked back to the campsite. Marshall did the same and was surprised to feel Sam reach for his fingers as they walked. They were frosty to the touch, but he'd known that from when his son had been groping at his neck when the stag had appeared.

"I wish Jesse could've seen the deer…" Sam made conversation as they trotted along, their tents coming into view; Peter tending over the fire. "But I just got up to go to the bathroom – I didn't know they'd be there – but I went to the stream on purpose because last night I found…"

But fortunately, Sam's confession of amphibian-hunting was put to a halt as they greeted Peter in only his boxer shorts and a T-shirt, quivering in the early morning air and attempting to stoke the flames into life.

"Where you guys been?" he asked thickly, his eyes only half open. "Jesse thought the grizzly bears had gotten you…"

"Unlikely," Marshall chuckled. "No grizzly bears up here. Do you want another shirt?" he appealed to his freezing brother-in-law.

"I'll be fine once this fire gets going…" he assumed. "But Sam, do you mind if Jesse borrows one of yours?" he asked his nephew, rubbing his hands together and blowing on them. "He's getting dressed and I think he's out…"

Sam agreed to this just as Mary stuck her head out of the flap, squinting and looking extremely surly. This was to be expected, and Marshall had intended to play it up as much as possible to diffuse her usual grouchiness.

"My morning glory!" he declared, spreading his arms wide and stepping over to give her a quick kiss. "How goes the night in the backwoods, inspector?"

"Mmm…" she growled, scowling darkly at her husband. "Bring any coffee on this excursion?"

"Sorry to disappoint," Marshall informed her. "But Sam and I had quite a morning. We went down to the brook and got some unexpected sightseeing with a family of deer."

"Fascinating," Mary muttered with sarcasm. "What were you doing all the way down there at the crack of dawn?" she unzipped the entrance and stepped all the way out, dancing on the spot to keep heated.

Marshall wasn't about to tell her Sam had meandered off on his own, and this recalled him to the fact that Sam had tried to tell him the reason he'd picked the water to explore.

"Sam!" he called to his son, who was whispering in hushed tones with a somewhat frantic-looking Jesse.

It took a moment of very odd discussion between them before Marshall got a response.

"You can't find him?"

"He was in the bin that my cereal was in yesterday…"

"So what happened to him?"

Marshall furrowed his brow, not having a clue what this was about but Mary was still half-asleep and didn't notice.

"Sam!" he hollered a second time, and this time his son snapped up to pay attention.

"Yeah?"

"Why'd you walk all the way out to the creek to go to the bathroom?" the father wondered skeptically.

"Oh…" he hedged. "Well…"

But at that moment, a piercing, high-pitched shriek of horror wrenched the once-still springtime air and Brandi came flying out of the boys' tent, obviously having been inside to rummage through Jesse's clothes. She flung herself from the scene, waggling her hands in all directions and looking full of disgust.

"What-what?" Peter demanded, barreling after his wife and trying to calm her.

"Snake-snake!"

"_Snake_?" Marshall intoned.

"Jesus Squish, you trying to attract the dogs with that kind of decibel?" Mary groused.

"There's a _snake_!"

"Where?" Marshall tried to be rational.

"Some…! Lizard…thing…!" Brandi could barely speak, now standing a good distance away from the tents.

But Marshall saw Sam and Jesse crawling around at lightning speed all over the dewy grass, and then his son clamped his fingers around a being bounding around in the shrubs. He had a gleeful smile and looked up, clearly beside himself with joy.

"Thanks Brandi!" he congratulated his aunt, no understanding of the chaos he'd caused. "You found my toad!"

**A/N: Enjoy the new episode tonight! I'm sure I will!**


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Thanks so much for continuing to review! I am so into the actual show, I am surprised anybody is interested in my fabricated version, but you all make me feel good about it!**

XXX

_Ten Years, December:_

Mary regretted the impromptu visit the minute she allowed her gloved hand to knock on the door of the shabby, albeit somewhat charismatic, little apartment number twelve. She regretted even more that she had Sam posted below her, yanking his striped hat down on his head every few seconds. Although they were buffeted from the howling wind by the rough inner walls on the second floor, the chill still penetrated and it was nasty.

"Can't we just go home?" Sam whispered while they waited at the door. "It's cold and I'm hungry…"

"He'll have something for you to eat," Mary assured him, beginning to wonder if that 'he' was even home.

"But it's late…" Sam pressed. "We never stay out at night; what are we even doing here?"

"Never mind," Mary muttered and just in time.

She heard the lock being fiddled with on the opposite side, even saw the knob jiggling before the door wrenched open and she faced Stan, his brown eyes looking warmer than anything outdoors in his concern. Mary was marginally embarrassed to see that he was in pajamas of navy and red plaid. Classic old-man-style.

"Hey…" he murmured, and Mary could tell in just one word he thought something was seriously wrong. "What's going on? Everything okay?"

The presence of Sam meant it was not work-related and Stan hurried to turn into the genial grandfather-figure for which he was known. He smiled kindly at the boy, his eyes nearly hidden by his hat.

"Good to see you partner," he said. "What brings you by?" he pressed.

"No idea, chief," Sam replied swiftly. "Ask her," he jerked his thumb at Mary.

Stan looked as if he wanted to – and soon – but quickly caught up on their reddened cheeks and the raging breeze beyond the walls.

"Curse my manners…" the boss stepped aside. "Come in you two. Gonna catch frostbite out there."

Mary gratefully accepted the invitation and stepped onto the threshold, taking in Stan's miniscule apartment. The man lived like a monk, and Mary knew he could afford something a little nicer but he was partial to his simple lifestyle. The apartment comprised of a single room that probably got a decent amount of sunlight during the day, the kitchen just an alcove further back. Mary didn't even know if there was a bedroom.

As Sam swept his hat off and hung his coat on the rack, he obviously didn't think his mother was going to speak up and was mindful to use his best form of politeness.

"Do you think I could have a snack, Stan?" he asked. "I can get it myself, but I was at practice for the play we're putting on right before Christmas, and I didn't get dinner yet…"

"Absolutely, my friend," Stan was always dually impressed with the way Sam carried himself. "There's a box of Oreos on the counter, and some jellybeans in the drawer under the sink."

"Thanks," Sam smiled, handing his hat to his mother since he couldn't reach the hook. "Can I turn on the TV?" there was one in the kitchen.

Who had a TV in their kitchen? And one so prehistoric looking at that?

"No problem," Stan said agreeably. "Anything you want…"

He was obviously thrown by the expectation that Mary and Sam were going to be staying for any length of time, but Sam knew his mama. He always had.

Sam retreated into the kitchen and turned on some cheesy-ass holiday special, sitting at the counter just inches from the screen, happily munching cookies in the dim bulb above. Stan finally turned expectantly to Mary, who was unwinding her scarf. She sighed, knowing she was about to be interrogated, but who could blame Stan?

"What is _wrong_, kiddo?" he whispered, gesturing her toward the couch. "You're spooking me with that; I don't like seeing that look on your face…"

He'd seen it before, and in much more dire circumstances.

Mary let him guide her to sit on the couch, which was so squashy she almost lost herself in it. She wondered how long Stan had-had it; it was made of some sort of fuzzy, grey-blue material, like imitation-velour.

It was also strange seeing Stan in pajamas. It made him so much less intimidating and Mary didn't like that; she wanted him to uphold a certain authority. The way he gazed at her, the way his eyes roved side-to-side, it all prompted such compassion.

"If you don't talk soon I'm going to have to call the CIA or something," he said.

She hadn't even spoken. She hadn't realized.

"Marshall and I got in a fight," she whispered theatrically.

She was trying to stay cool, as to plead her case so magnificently, but she strongly suspected she was going to come undone soon just as she had with her husband. She'd spent the last half hour screaming herself hoarse; she was not a rational debater and Stan was going to pick up on that if they dove in headfirst.

"A fight," Stan sounded a little disbelieving. "You fight all the time."

This was true. She should've clarified.

"A _real_ fight," she emphasized. "Shouting and daggers and below-the-belt comments; the whole nine yards…" it felt good to finally get it out.

"What about?" Stan wanted to know, careful not to disturb Sam who was content in the room beyond.

Mary considered for a moment, sweeping her hair off her face and over her head in a strange sort of crimp; a release of her stress. The strands were full of static from the weather outdoors; from where she'd unwound her scarf.

"Marshall wants to move to Kansas."

Stan nodded sedately, as he was often known to do; stroking his chin and looking very old-school in his movements. Mary really didn't know what this meant, but felt grateful she didn't have to decode. Stan looked that way no matter, unless it was life-or-death.

"Interesting," was his response.

Mary's mind immediately went to suspicion. She didn't miss the complete lack-of-surprise in Stan's one word comment, and that could mean one of very few things. She narrowed her eyebrows at once, hoping for Stan's sake that she was incorrect in her misgivings.

"Interesting," she repeated, intending to spark some fear in her boss with the low tone in her voice. "_What's_ interesting?"

Stan cast an evasive look at Sam in the kitchen, who fortunately did not seem to be listening. The Charlie Brown Christmas Special was much more appealing, as were the cookies.

He attempted to cover, "Well I…"

But Mary was too quick for him, "Did Marshall _tell_ you about this?" she demanded, lower still. "Before he told _me_?"

Stan sighed, folding his hands on the lap of those geriatric pajamas, rubbing his fingers together in obvious agitation. But there was no point in hiding now – not when Mary had that look on her face.

"Mary, I just think that he wanted a second opinion…"

"Goddamn it Stan!" she hissed, fighting to pull rank and start screaming; not wanting Sam to overhear before anything was set-in-stone. "A second opinion means he would've asked _mine_ first, and that's not what he did!"

"He didn't ask my opinion about the move…" Stan hurried to clarify. "He just had some questions to see if I knew anybody in the Marshal divisions up there…"

But it was plain Mary did not buy this either and she barreled on.

"Oh, that is such bullshit," she snapped, shaking her head. "He grew up there; his father was a Marshal; he knows the ins and outs…" she reminded her boss. "He wanted to see how you'd think I'd react," she assumed, her eyes wild.

Stan exhaled; he was very used to Mary's outbursts, but he couldn't help wondering what had prompted her to stop by to see him, of all people during this time. She obviously hadn't expected him to already be in the know. Could she really be so against the idea of a move that she'd resorted to Stan?

"So…what happened?" the man asked to avoid being berated anymore. "I take it you're not a fan of this idea."

Mary huffed, blowing her bangs out of her eyes again and scowling darkly. She looked murderous.

"Aren't you quick on the uptake," she quipped. "I think it _sucks_."

Stan couldn't resist a little bit of annoyance showing on his face. Mary was a deeper, more critical thinker than she sometimes appeared, especially when it came to situations she didn't approve of. She often went for bluntness and apologized – half-heartedly – later.

"Did you…_say_ that to him?" Stan pressed her as tenderly as he could.

Mary rolled her eyes, "More or less."

More exasperation snuck its way onto Stan's face. Mary had come a long way, but she reverted pretty fast.

"I know this can sometimes be a foreign concept for you kiddo…" he ventured boldly. "But that might've hurt his feelings."

This did nothing to endear Mary's attitude; if anything she looked surlier than ever. And yet, Stan strongly suspected she looked as such because she knew he was right. She hated that.

"But what the hell is he thinking?" she chose not to respond to his comeback and plowed on recklessly. "We can't move out there. Our lives are _here_…" she took care to pitch-down again so Sam would not overhear. "We are not going to the land of the wheat, with the choking dust clouds and the covered wagons and the…"

"Mary," Stan interrupted sharply, turning on his no-nonsense boss voice.

Although this was personal rather than professional, he thought it might steer her in the right direction.

"Did you ever think about _why_ he might want to go?"

Truthfully no, she had not. She acted first and thought second on the most unflattering of occasions. It was not her strongest suit, but she had many flaws. But she was so horribly resistant to the idea she really hadn't stopped to consider Marshall's feelings. Sometimes she fancied herself a changed woman in that department, but it could be frightening how quickly she morphed into her old self.

When his inspector did not respond, Stan thought it was perhaps safe to continue.

"Listen Mary…" he began. "When I spoke to him, I didn't get the impression he actually – really and truly – _wanted_ to go. But he's had a rough couple of years, sweetheart…"

As if she needed reminding of that.

"He misses his family; he's been here a long time…" Stan persisted in rationalizing. "Those kids are growing up and he's not seeing it…" he soldiered on. "And Carolyn's getting on in years and I think he feels like he _should_ be there, more than anything."

That, if nothing else, was just like Marshall. He always wanted to do what he thought was morally centered. They'd stayed in Albuquerque because, as Mary had pointed out, their lives were there. Mary had felt she had a responsibly to Brandi and Jinx, and then Jesse – and of course to Sam, bringing him up along with their first tentative steps into a real relationship.

"What _exactly_ did he say to you?" Stan wanted to know. "Did he come right out tell you he wanted to pack up and move out there?"

Mary knew she was in for it now, knew she had taken things too far and overreacted and that was what had pissed Marshall off. She hadn't even given him a chance. However, she bought some time by appealing to Sam.

"You okay in there, bud?" she called, wanting to make sure he wasn't gleaning anything from the hushed, angry whispers.

"Uh-huh…" he turned briefly from the television to nod, still munching his Oreos. "Charlie Brown is on."

"Because you haven't seen that enough times," his mother tried to joke.

He grinned, crumbs dusting the outer corners of his mouth.

"You want a cookie mom?" he asked politely.

"No thanks," she declined. "Stan and I are just finishing up something tricky from work."

Sam nodded as though he knew as much and turned back to his program. Mary _hated_ lying to him, and she almost never did it. But she didn't see the point of bothering her son with something like this, not when she had – apparently – flown off the handle and dismissed Marshall's wishes at the drop of a hat.

She faced Stan once more, knowing he was waiting for an answer.

"He just said that…" she shrugged, trying to appear aloof and likely failing miserably. "He just said that he felt like he hadn't…" she tried to remember Marshall's exact phrasing. "Or I guess that he _had_…taken his family for granted – I don't know some philosophical drivel about when he was in the hospital – and that it might be nice to be closer."

Stan did his best to understand Mary's point of view, knowing how she so severely despised discussing Marshall's accident, even more so since the years had gone on and Sam had adjusted back to normalcy.

"And you took this to mean he wanted to relocate?" Stan wanted to shed some light.

The older man saw he wasn't going to get a straight answer out of her and opted to continue speaking.

"He basically said the same thing to me, Mary," he explained in the hopes that this would make her feel better. "And I took it to mean he'd like to see everybody more often – maybe longer in the summers, hence the job search," he detailed carefully. "Time's not slowing down, and I like to think Marshall understands that better than anyone."

He would, Mary thought. Being in a coma and spending upwards of two months in the hospital; missing your son's birthday, a Halloween and Thanksgiving in the ICU, nearly surpassing Christmas as well. It had been three years since that time, but Mary knew it was still very much a part of her husband; a part that haunted him. It was a part of all of them; the most terrifying one that crept in the shadowy corners late at night.

"You really don't think he actually wants to go?" Mary couldn't resist asking.

Stan fed her a look that clearly said it was time to show a little thoughtfulness, but took care to answer nonetheless.

"Not really," he said. "He loves his job here – even though it's not what it used to be – and he loves _your_ family," he emphasized. "Maybe even more than you do."

He offered her a teasing smile and Mary was hard-pressed not to give him one in return. She knew it wasn't fair to make it seem as though she was lightening up just because he was confirming that Marshall's ideas had been whimsical and fleeting. He proved it with his next words.

"But a little…" Stan hedged a bit, gesturing with his hands trying to get the words out. "Oh, I don't know…" now he was about to poke fun. "_Consideration_ in this area would be of some help. Think about where he's coming from, kiddo. Think about why you might've upset him so much."

Mary knew exactly why she'd upset Marshall. Because she'd stomped all over his musings with little chance for him to defend himself – she'd made them seem ridiculous and absurd. He might not have been serious about going, but it was imperative Mary try to understand. They should visit more often – hell, invite the gang to Albuquerque. It was easier now that their jobs didn't require quite as much discretion.

The woman sighed and rubbed her eyes with her fingers, pinching the bridge of her nose and trying to come up with something better than her usual non-apology-apology. Where had the attitude gone that she'd appreciate every second of Marshall she got? How had that gotten snuffed out so quickly?

"Sam and I should go…" Mary groaned to Stan beneath her hands, eyes still closed. "Did we interrupt just as you were about to step into your evening bath?" she parted her fingers to meet him with a naughty eye, wondering if they'd crossed that bridge by now.

"Risky business, inspector…" he wagged a finger at her comment. "But I wouldn't say no to you getting out of my hair…"

"Jesus, you just _heave_ me the bald jokes," Mary quipped as she stood up.

"Get home to your husband," Stan interrupted without making note of her last phrase. "He's going to wonder where you've gone."

"He knows where I went; I had to pick up Sam from that ridiculous novelty show the school's putting on," she rolled her eyes as he walked her back to the door; she removed her scarf and coat as well as Sam's.

"Not playing stage-mom?" Stan inquired while she dressed for the cold.

"As if," Mary scoffed. And then, "Sam, let's go pal!"

Obedient as ever, her son hopped off the stool at the counter, dusting his crumby hands on his jeans. He even reached to turn the TV off and folded up the package of Oreos to replace them from where they'd come. Stan chuckled at his ability to pick up after himself and turned to his mother.

"Gonna have to keep this one around as housekeeper," he joked. "Pay him by the hour."

"Let's just get him out of fourth grade first," Mary retorted as Sam approached; she handed him his parka and hat, which he set about putting on at once.

While they were waiting, Stan engaged in light conversation with the boy.

"How's the play coming, partner?" he asked, the name he adopted to still give Sam the cowboy spin, despite the fact that he was older and had progressed to other interests now.

"Not bad…" Sam responded, yanking the hat down so far it covered his eyes; Mary reached and shifted it upward. "There's this whole part in the middle where I have a bunch of lines, but it's kind of – I don't know – weird since I play a snowman."

"A snowman?" Stan laughed, Mary working her fingers into her gloves. "I didn't know those existed in the nativity scene."

"It's not the nativity scene," Sam informed him, the better to see now that his hat was on properly. "They don't let us do actual ' Christmas' plays anymore, I guess, in case some people don't celebrate or something…"

"Ah," Stan mused with a nod, but without further prodding.

"I don't think it's that big a deal though," Sam voiced, Mary helping him with the arms of his coat so he could talk. "I mean, like, Jesse celebrates Christmas and Hanukkah because Peter's Jewish. He and Brandi always do Christmas with us and Hanukkah with Peter's mom and dad, and Jesse wouldn't care if we were doing a play with Santa Claus in it," he was a natural debater, even when he wasn't trying to be. "He still _believes_ in Santa!"

This was something Mary could definitely speak up on and she didn't hesitate.

"I told you not to go and blow that for him," she reminded her son seriously. "You didn't, did you?"

"No," Sam answered at once, obviously telling the truth. "I'm just kind of surprised he doesn't know yet, since I was in – like – second grade when I figured it out."

"Jesse's only in third," Mary continued to drive this point home. "He'll get the real story soon enough."

"Anyway…" Sam brushed this off, Mary trying to drag him toward the door while Stan persisted in listening intently. "The teachers and some of the moms and dads act like we can't do Christmas stuff but…" he shrugged. "I think it'd be better without snowmen."

Stan laughed again, "Religion and politics, partner," he patted Sam's head affectionately beneath his hat. "Sensitive subjects."

"Yeah…" Sam agreed, Mary opening the door so that they were met with a blast of icy air. "But at least I'm not in the chorus," he said gratefully, showing his enormous relief. "I _really_ didn't want to sing."

Stan couldn't quit chortling, but Mary knew it was time they hit the road. Even with cell phones and laptops – even being US Marshals – Marshall would indeed get concerned if Mary did not return home with their child in a timely manner. She needed to cut Sam off so they could get out of here.

"Give Stan the old bon voyage, Smush…" she interjected through his babble. "We've gotta go; dad's waiting."

Sam smiled at the older man, "Bye Stan. Thanks for the cookies."

"Anytime," he nodded and reached out to shake his hand, which Sam accepted at once and wrung up and down in a hearty fashion; Mary thought he liked the professionalism of it.

"See you later," Mary offered while her son trooped loudly on the wooden planks of the second floor toward the stairs. "Thanks for…"

She wasn't entirely sure how to finish, how to express what she guessed was gratitude. She didn't even know what had brought her to Stan, but something subconscious must've known he'd understand and turn her around right. Fortunately, he was still grinning and put her at ease.

"Thanks for the talk," she concluded and in a gesture of good faith, she patted his arm.

"What I'm here for, inspector," Stan said. "Goodnight."

Mary bid him a second farewell and hurried to catch up with Sam, making sure they reached the car together. It was a short drive back to their house, and both were silent on the drive home, drinking in the heat out of the vents, Sam actually removing his gloves and placing his fingers palms out to the warmth. His cheeks went rosy in just the fifteen minutes they rode, but he was happy to be heading to his own abode, soon to have dinner in his stomach, and blissfully unaware of the drama going down between his parents.

Mary knew Marshall was home when she opened the door because his SUV was in the drive, but he was nowhere in sight. Sam undid his outdoor wear for the second time and immediately headed for the kitchen and lifted himself onto the stool at the island.

"Can I have macaroni and cheese?" he asked eagerly. "Or did you and dad make something else?"

"No," Mary shook her head, having planned to pick up something for dinner. "Macaroni's fine. I'll start you some."

Mary went to the cabinet and pulled down a box of Kraft, starting the water on the stove and telling Sam to holler when he saw it boil. Once she got him settled, for he'd pulled out a book from his backpack and started reading, she dashed to the back of the house, fully intending to barge in on Marshall in the bedroom.

Until she heard his voice.

"No…" he was whispering calmly. "No, I just wanted to make sure your mom and dad knew…"

Who was he talking to? Investigative skills returning in no time at all, Mary very nearly pressed her ear to the door to listen.

"They just need to know if you're this upset, Claire…"

It was Claire? From the sound of it, a very melancholy and unhappy Claire.

"I was just checking…" he was resolutely calm, nowhere near agitated. "Now, talk to me," his voice remained muffled. "What happened?"

Mary wished she could glean something – anything – from Claire's end of the conversation, because Marshall was only listening by this point. She could even picture him nodding and quietly calculating, trying to figure out the best course of action to fix it. She was just wondering if she could figure out a little bit more by placing her eye to look underneath the crack in the door, when he spoke again.

"Claire Bear, I'm so sorry…" he murmured tenderly. "I know hearing you're better off without them doesn't make you feel better right now, but it is true. You're a nice girl; don't let people tell you otherwise."

What had gone wrong with Claire? Mary guessed it was just social issues like always, and that they were taking their toll on the young girl. Claire was close to fourteen, which was a habitually hard age. Although Mary was sure she'd have loved Sam whether he'd been a Samuel or a Samantha, she couldn't help feeling grateful that he was a boy. Their intake of drama and gossip was far less.

"No…" Marshall said for the third time. "No, I'm not busy," he promised. "You can keep talking as long as you want."

Kind, considerate Claire – an emotional wreck and she was concerned with her uncle's time.

"Your dad said this has been going on awhile…" Marshall pressed gently. "Since you started eighth grade?"

But at that moment, Mary about jumped out of her skin and almost hit her head on the door she was so startled by the cry that came from the kitchen.

"Mom, the water's boiling!" Sam bellowed at the top of his lungs.

Making a note to tell Sam off for being so unnecessarily noisy, Mary listened intently for another second or two to see if Marshall knew she was eavesdropping since Sam had yelled for her. Either he hadn't been paying attention or thought she was in the bathroom, because there was not a peep from beyond the door and several mumblings Mary didn't catch.

She strode back to the kitchen to see Sam immersed in his book, not even bothering to watch to see if the liquid spilled over.

"Use a bullhorn next time," she griped at her son. "You don't need to scream."

"I wanted to make sure you heard so the stove didn't catch fire and the water didn't flood the kitchen," he responded smartly while his mother tended to his meal. Looking up from his book, "What's going on?"

He was casual, merely asking because he was curious but Mary wasn't ready to tell.

"What do you mean what's going on?" she repeated his question as she worked.

"Are you and dad fighting?" he was just as laid-back about this.

Mary just shrugged, "I don't know. Kind of."

"Is that the real reason we went to Stan's?"

He really was too intelligent for his own good. He knew way too much about way too many things; it was impossible to hide from him. Maybe that was why Mary had forced herself not to do it unless absolutely necessary. He'd never buy it.

"Why would you think that?" she asked anyway, anxious to get back to Marshall's discussion.

"Because we _never_ go over there," he informed her. "During the day _or_ at night. The only time we did was to bring him that nasty soup you made after he had to get those stitches in his hand last year," he recalled.

"My soup was not _nasty_," his mother rebutted, more offended than she could've predicted. "You didn't even eat it; how would you know?"

"Dad told me," Sam chuckled; to him, his father's word was the gospel. "You put _pieces_ of tomato in tomato soup. And it was still all pasty from the stuff in the can."

Where did he learn the word pasty? And why did it matter? She'd distracted him enough that she could leave without feeling badly about keeping something from him. Giving a second set of instructions for the macaroni, she left her little bookworm in peace and tottered back to the bedroom on her heels.

Things had not improved in the time she'd been gone. Marshall sounded like he was reasoning with his niece now.

"I know…" he sighed patiently. "Claire, I wish we could, and I'm sorry…"

Uh-oh.

"…I really am, beautiful…"

Oh, no.

"…But we can't come this year; Mary's sister is hosting for the first time and we promised we'd be there…"

Ugh. Awful. So awful.

"I know you understand," Marshall was painfully compassionate, so much so his wife's heart was breaking. "That's what makes you so special, Claire Bear. You're always thinking about other people."

Like Marshall. _Just_ like Marshall.

It must've been the realization – the conk over the head – that made Mary knock on the door, with no intention of waiting to be invited. She thrust her hand into the knob and just marched right in; trying to ignore Marshall's bewildered and startled face. She barely heard him attempting to do two things at once.

"Just a second…" he murmured. And then, to Mary, "Just give me a few to finish up; Claire's…"

But Mary plopped herself onto the bed next to him and without a word waggled her fingers, indicating that he give her the phone. He just stared at her, the sadness that had entered during their argument earlier still lingering in his eyes. But, knowing Mary had a mind of her own, he gave up the cell – albeit reluctantly.

Mary flipped it the right direction and put it to her ear.

"Hi Claire," she greeted swiftly.

There was a brief, breathy pause, but the girl took it in stride.

"Hi Mary," she could tell she was smiling as well as weepy all at the same time. "I'm sorry; do you need to talk to Uncle Marshall? I can let him go…"

"No," Mary refuted this at once. "I was just thinking," she continued boldly without waiting for a second response. "It's true Marshall and I can't come out to Kansas for Christmas thanks to our whole switch-off schedule, and I can't lie and tell you Brandi's not completely losing her mind with unadulterated – completely outlandish – overstimulation getting to play hostess…"

"Yeah…" Claire, just as Marshall had said, was understanding but disappointed.

"Well, it'll be pretty quiet at our house with my mother flocking with Brandi and Sam hanging out with Jesse," Mary went on. "How would you like to come and stay with me and Marshall?"

Marshall himself almost fell off the bed. As it was, he actually grabbed the mattress like he needed to steady himself. It looked like he couldn't possibly buy into what he'd just heard, especially after what had happened earlier.

Claire was in disbelief, "Could I _really_?" she whispered in a hushed voice. "I mean, by myself?"

"Sure," Mary shrugged unconcernedly. "Maybe not until the day after, that way you'll still get to be with your family…"

"Right," Claire was latching on fast and Marshall was nodding at his wife's suggestion. "But, I've never flown on a plane alone before…"

"Oh, there's nothing to it," Mary assured her. "You're smart; all you have to do is follow signs."

There was a silence on the other end, but Claire couldn't contain herself for long. She was trying to suppress her glee, but Mary heard it in the oddest places, on the most distinct words.

"Are you sure?" she whispered tentatively. "It's okay with Marshall?"

She couldn't forget that her uncle had just said seeing each other was a no-go.

"Pretty sure he's good," Mary looked to her husband as she said this and he nodded a second time, more sedately and more serious on this front. "We'll make sure Kim and your dad are on board…" Mary promised, intending to wring Julian's neck if he said no for whatever reason. "But you can stay on our couch; hang out with the boys…"

"Yes!" Claire interrupted, as though she needed to accept the offer. "I want to, I really do!"

"I can tell," Mary chuckled. "And you know what else I just remembered; Sam has some of those patriotic or presidential or whatever the hell holidays they are off from school in February," she wasn't done yet. "Maybe Marshall and I can get out and see everybody then."

"That would be so much fun!" Claire decided at once. "There's still snow here in February sometimes; I bet Sam would really like it."

"I bet he would," Mary agreed.

Now she was through. She'd done her duty. She'd lifted the weight. She'd done for another. She wasn't sure why it came so reluctantly. The first major act she'd engaged in for another had been the smartest, most important of her entire life.

"You want to talk to Marshall some more?" Mary prompted, careful to ask.

But Claire declined, "No," she said. "I have to finish my homework; our break doesn't start until Friday."

"All right," Mary allowed. "See you soon, Claire."

"Yeah…" there was joy completely evident in all four letters. "Bye!"

Mary hung up without calling goodnight and hit the off button, eyes flickering downward onto the little screen as it went black when the call ended. Suddenly, she was embarrassed for the abrupt way she'd taken charge and couldn't help wondering if she was in for a lecture about trying to avoid the real issue.

But when she finally glanced up, Marshall's blue eyes were sparkling with that same sweetness they always did. He wasn't smiling, but he was pleased nonetheless.

"Thanks," was all he said.

Mary took pause, internally she breathed deep, but not outward because she didn't want Marshall to see the preparation. She got herself equipped and geared up – to admit that she'd been wrong. It was never easy.

She looked right at him. He wouldn't know she was genuine unless she did.

"I'm sorry," she whispered.

Marshall did sigh, just as Mary had wanted to do, but he stretched his neck and wove his left hand around her hair, pulling her into him with his right and they kissed. Mary lost herself in it for a moment, as she was often known to do, reveling in having been able to confess to fault.

"It's fine…" Marshall conceded when he pulled away, but Mary wouldn't let him get away with that.

"It's not," she stated honestly. "Don't do that. I didn't listen to you – I didn't care what you had to say. That's not fine."

Marshall actually craned backward, quirking his eyebrow in great skepticism.

"What _have_ you done with Mary Shannon?" he asked.

She chuckled as easily as she could, knowing Marshall couldn't let go of the kind of image she projected. He patted her hair to reassure her that she'd done her part and made it up to him.

"Okay, so it's not fine," he admitted. "But you wised up," he joked. "It's fine _now_. It was wonderful of you to ask Claire here for Christmas. Poor kid; she just hates school; can't find a friend for anything."

"Sucks…" Mary whispered bluntly, always loving Marshall's long, elegant fingers in her strands.

A brief period of quiet met her proclamation, just the two of them, Marshall intertwining just like always. But after a moment, he forced himself to speak up.

"Mare, I don't want to move up there."

She knew he was telling the truth. She just knew.

"I really don't know why I said I did," he went on. "I love it here – I love living three miles from family that I see every day; I love the mountains and the terrain and the job and Stan…"

"You don't have to get sappy, doofus…" Mary felt comfortable insulting.

"I just…" it was Marshall's turn not to listen.

He shook his head and swallowed, like he wasn't even sure how to explain himself. Mary knew it was those memories of the shooting that were making him behave as such.

"I just feel like things are moving so fast…"

Stan had said the exact same thing. A brilliant man.

"I get it, Marshall," Mary assured him. "I do. And we can make the time – we can," she didn't know why she felt the need to repeat herself. "Sam's older now, work's not as demanding; we can go more often…"

Marshall looked touched and also very relieved, almost like all his dreams had come true.

"I would really like that," he said sincerely.

Mary nodded, not knowing what else to say, but it was clear they had passed quite successfully into calmer, much more moderate waters. They were back to safety, back to security. It was nicer on this side. So much nicer.

They looked at one another and sighed in unison, which made both of them laugh at absolutely nothing at all. It really was fine; it was better than fine.

"Sam here?" Marshall ventured, standing up and Mary joined him.

"Yeah…" she replied, linking her hand with her husband's as they walked to the hall. "Bemoaning his role as a snowman…"

Marshall was predictably amused with this development and didn't miss the opportunity to goad his son about it when they reached the kitchen.

"What's this I hear about you grumbling and groaning about your prize-winning role in the play?" he called to Sam, still stationed at the island. "Not appreciative of being Snowman Number Three, are we?"

Sam grinned sheepishly and closed his book; Mary went to the stove to make sure the macaroni and cheese was coming along.

"I didn't say that," he rectified. "It's just sort of silly how they're trying to combine Christmas and Hanukkah and all the others…"

"I would disagree," Marshall piped up, not at all unexpectedly. "It is a show of good faith to include the various religions; it shows how accepting one can be around the holidays."

"Maybe…" Sam warmed a little to the idea. "I didn't think of it like that."

"And not just around the holidays…" Marshall emphasized, picking up Sam's book to see the title.

Mary sensed he wasn't finished with his thought and he raised his eyes to meet hers. She was smiling approvingly.

"All the time," he concluded.

His wife nodded to show she understood. It wasn't so bad to understand. It was almost a comfort.

"Yes…" Mary whispered, no better way to sum it up. "All the time."

**A/N: How did everybody enjoy last night's episode? I loved it; especially the end. Mary McCormack blew me away in the scene with her father dying on the ground, not to mention her horror when she found out he was gone. Top-notch.**

**Unfortunately, like the actual IPS; this story is on its way out as well. I take Sam to thirteen and then he and his cohorts will sail off into the sunset.**


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: You all that are asking me to stick around with this group are too kind. I tend to feel they've run their limit! (Or else I'm just out of ideas.) They've been good to me, and so have you all!**

**This one borders on the schmaltzy; I hope you'll forgive me for it LOL!**

XXX

_Eleven Years, June:_

Why did school gyms always smell like rubber and sweat? Even at nine o'clock in the morning long before physical education periods began, the stench was as strong as ever, odors that mingled very unpleasantly for those unfortunate enough to be in their confines at such an hour.

And the floor – you'd think someone could do something about those unsightly black scuff marks on the once-white linoleum. Wasn't this supposed to be a special occasion? They hadn't exactly spruced the place up, unless you counted the bunches of blue and yellow balloons adorning the stage with 'congratulations' stamped on every single one. The basketball hoops had just barely been screwed up so they hung awkwardly, helter-skelter in the high ceiling.

Mary reflected on all this and more as she stationed herself at the PTA snack table, piling serving after serving of scrambled eggs onto her plate. She was also downing most of the hot coffee, earning her dirty looks from the prissy room mothers who tottered up to 'check' on refreshments. Hey, they'd never said there was a limit.

She supposed the stage was a nice touch. It was erected at the far end of the gym so there was actually a platform above the audience, not to mention a podium with which someone could talk down to the group. How professional.

She shoveled in some more eggs just as she saw Jinx approach, too-red lipstick evident even from a distance, heels wavering on her old ankles. Well, better her than snippy "one trip only!" when it came to the complimentary breakfast.

"Angel, aren't you going to sit down soon?" her mother asked when she arrived. "I'm getting attitude from some of the parents about trying to save your seat with my purse…"

So, Mary wasn't the only one receiving guff. She and Jinx had something in common after all.

"It's not nine o'clock yet," Mary rebutted swiftly, mouth full of chewed-up egg; she even speared a bite of pancake with her fork and ate that too.

Jinx whirled to glance at the caged clock on the wall. When she turned back, she was smirking.

"You have about sixty seconds, honey," she was sugary as usual.

"Sixty seconds longer at this smorgasbord," was how Mary looked at it. "Jesus, breakfast buffets are the best…" she spiked a piece of pancake with more maple syrup.

Jinx was never embarrassed at the way Mary often behaved in public, knowing she'd spent quite a few years bringing shame to her daughter with her drunken displays. However, she did attempt a lucid smile, like Mary might have a collection of rocks rattling in her head.

And then she touched her shoulder. Mary knew exactly what _that_ meant.

"I know this is probably difficult for you, darling…" she fed her a would-be-understanding smile before Mary interrupted with just her usual amount of disdain.

"What?" she scoffed, less than ladylike with her mouth full of food. "What's difficult about it? It's a fifth grade graduation not a convention with the Nazi's."

She didn't even know where she'd pulled that reference from. It wasn't very clever, nor did it make much sense. She was off her game, something that didn't please her.

"I just meant…" Jinx went at it again, but Mary refused to let her get in another thought.

"I know what you meant, mom," Mary assured her. "Everything's fine. They say their names, they walk, they shake hands; it is nothing we have to get on film for posterity," she rattled off. "They don't even wear those God awful mortar boards."

For that, she was grateful.

Jinx was still smiling softly, "You know I'm talking about Sam's little speech."

'Little' speech. What a load. There was nothing 'little' about it. Sam had been chosen out of his entire class of fifth graders – three sections – to talk in front of the parents before the little heathens got shipped off to middle school. Mary still didn't know why; he was intelligent, but certainly not top of his class if they even measured such a thing in grade school.

His charisma? His winning personality? Was it possible she wasn't the only one who'd noticed?

"He's obsessing over that thing," Mary finally conceded defeat and tossed her plate in the garbage, allowing Jinx to lead her to the row of folding chairs that took them to Marshall, Brandi, Peter, and Mark; Jesse stuck in class with the rest of the school.

"He'll be wonderful," Jinx promised. "He's not even nervous."

This was true. Sam was not nervous, merely wanting the well-wishes to be letter-perfect. It was supposed to be short and he got to read straight from his paper, so there was really no need for anxiety.

Maybe it was something else on Mary's mind.

"I don't even know what's in it," his mother reflected as she and Jinx scooted into their row, Mary on the end beside Marshall.

"Trust me…" Jinx nodded knowingly, craning her neck to see around Peter. "You'll love it."

Mary didn't doubt this, but she had become more curious in the weeks leading up to the event. Sam had practiced exclusively on his aunt and grandmother, not wanting Mary and Marshall to hear the final product until the day of.

Looking down the row of guests, Mary was pleased so many had turned out for her son's event. Her and Marshall on the outside, followed by Mark, Brandi, Peter, and Jinx all the way on the other side. Sam had quite the entourage.

But before Mary could mull it over anymore, their little mini-commencement had indeed commenced. The squirrely fifth graders standing on risers on the stage stopped giggling and poking one another, and faced their audience as the principal walked out to begin the cheesy, overly corny introduction to this hoopla.

Sam was right in the center of the front row, which was no surprise since he was going to have to go to the podium. He was smiling serenely – maybe a _tiny_ bit nervously – but all-in-all he looked pleased and fairly relaxed. Mary couldn't help thinking how adult he appeared in his khaki pants and the dark red shirt Marshall had gotten for him, complete with black tie. Very polished.

The mother hadn't bothered to listen to the preface to the program, knowing the details included philosophic jargon about spreading one's wings, conquering the odds, climbing the highest hill. It was all the same to her, but she knew when Marshall's hand floated onto her knee and squeezed that the important part was about to be upon them and Mary would do well to start paying attention.

She swallowed, unable to look at him and instead focused on the principal.

"…And one of our fifth graders has agreed to give an address this morning before we start our ceremony…" she previewed. "Let's give a warm welcome – from Mrs. Harrison's class – Samuel Shannon."

There was a polite smattering of applause as Sam stepped down off the risers to head for the microphone. Brandi even whooped a couple of times, which Mary found childish but it was obvious Sam had heard the cheer because he grinned right after it sounded through the stark cement walls.

Instinctively, Mary placed her palm on top of Marshall's hand. He turned his over and held it, pinching their fingers together.

He even managed words before Sam started speaking.

"He's gonna be fine," in the tiniest of whispers, almost like a ventriloquist. "So are you."

Mary had a lot more faith in that first phrase, but she couldn't respond. She was too in tune to her child at the moment; it was just her and him, Marshall hovering somewhere around the edges of her brain.

Sam looked into the audience for a moment before he swallowed, took a deep breath, and looked down at his paper.

And then he was off.

"Good morning. My name is Samuel Shannon, but everybody calls me Sam. I'm eleven years old, and I've lived in Albuquerque since I was a baby."

That, in and of itself, was enough to make Mary well-up which was so ridiculous it nearly made her angry. But when she reflected on her own childhood, how many times she'd moved – been forced to move – and how _hard_ she'd tried to give Sam stability; it was a sense of accomplishment. She'd done it.

"When Mrs. Harrison asked me to talk at graduation, I really didn't know what I was supposed to say…"

There was a genial trickle of laughter through the crowd. At least Sam was honest.

"But, she told me that I should talk about something that's special to me, or someone that's special to me, because whatever it is probably made it so I could get through school, to fifth grade, and be ready to go to middle school…" he continued, eyes flying left to right as he read his prepared statement.

Mary supposed there was some truth to this, maybe a nudge toward something inspirational for his class to chew on? Something to make the parents weep and clutch their hearts and pearls.

"So, I thought about it…" Sam went on, hardly pausing to take a breath. "I decided I'd choose a person."

_Now_ this was getting interesting. He was doing so well; Mary's heartbeat began to slow down. Having Marshall's hand in hers helped.

"And I picked…"

And he finally looked up. Even so far in the distance, Mary thought she could see the determination in his eyes. She could certainly see the sweet half-smile on his face. It was the first moment she really did feel like it was just the two of them.

"I picked my dad."

Marshall hitched, almost scrabbling at Mary's hand but she hung on hard. She hadn't expected it to be her. Even not knowing what the commemorative had been about, she could've guessed. Who better? And she wasn't insulted in the least; hell, she'd have picked the same person.

Still, not being shocked didn't stop her from being touched. She couldn't look at Marshall; she knew his eyes were preparing to fill.

"My dad is Federal United States Marshal. So is my mom."

He sounded so-_so_ proud.

"For a long time, I couldn't tell anybody what they did; I just had to say they worked for the police department," he clarified with a nervous little laugh, but he kept right on going. "There are some parts of their jobs that I still can't talk about – some parts I don't even _know_ about!"

He placed so much emphasis on the second-to-last word that the crowd chuckled another time. Sam was obviously boosted by the approval and paused briefly to revel in it, eyes scanning all the faces.

"But I've always known that what they do is important; that they help people who need it."

This was quite the take, Mary thought. An optimistic one. Especially considering what she was fairly certain was coming next.

"When I was in the first grade…"

Yup.

"Right before I turned seven…"

Like his mama.

"My dad was severely injured in the line of duty."

Such a grown-up phrase. But he knew it well.

"He was in a coma for eleven days and in the hospital for two months because he lost so much blood and one of his kidneys."

Sam always did very well with facts, rules, and regulations. And Mary suddenly realized that this was why he'd been asked to share his story. Because he had a story to tell. One of hope, of motivation, and beliefs. The perfect amount of sappiness for such an occasion – she never thought she'd live to see the day.

The next part sounded a little more rehearsed, but Mary could hardly expect her son to talk about such a hardship so casually. He merely read without lifting his eyes, and she sensed he'd had some help with the next bit of phrasing.

"If you had told me before that happened that eleven days was a long time, I'd have thought you were crazy," he attempted to inject some humor, and the group of parents recognized the prepared, cliché statement and chortled a little more sadly.

"But those eleven days felt like forever," he continued, and the lump returned in Mary's throat almost as a reflex; she still could not face her husband. "But I still remember how happy I was when my dad finally woke up…"

He braved another glance to the audience, and his gorgeous orbs found the man to whom he was speaking. Biting the bullet, Mary forced herself to gaze up into Marshall's face. She'd expected him to be shedding tears, and he was – quiet ones, soft and controlled. The strangest smile blended amongst them.

"I used to think my dad woke up because I'd had a dream about it, but now I know it's because he wanted to get back to me and my mom. No matter how far away he is, he always comes home to us," this part seemed easier for him, and he read with more fluidity. "When he was still in a coma, everyone told me how strong he was, and how he would hang on, and that ended up being true."

Mary never liked to see Marshall crying and he wouldn't let go of her hand, so she clutched it even tighter to recall him to her and the rest of the world.

"He's not _just_ strong…" Sam emphasized, sparing a quick look for the group. "But really brave too, and at the same time, I sometimes think that people forget how courageous my mom was when he was in the hospital…"

Wait. _What_?

Courageous? Who had allowed the use of _that_ word?

Mary just stared at her child, unable to truly believe the words were coming out of his mouth.

"My mom is what my dad says is sarcastic on a good day and aggressive on a bad one…"

This earned a very hearty, booming laugh from everyone listening but to Mary it was just a gentle hum.

"She sometimes jokes with me that she has a general and very strong dislike of the human race, but I'll never forget everything that she did when my dad was sick…"

Meaning it didn't matter – whatever else she projected, it didn't matter. Her stare suddenly met Sam's – he stared straight back, bold-faced and confident, and more grown-up than she'd ever seen him in her life.

"I know that I couldn't have gotten through it without her."

The smile that graced his beautiful face was one that broke her heart while a vibrant and streaming ray of joy mended the pieces back together. How could he be saying this, and in front of so many people? Making them sound so perfect, so unspoiled? They weren't – in any, way, shape, or form – but they looked so idealized in the eyes of everyone sitting around them.

How had Mary – fatherless and abandoned and taking care of herself at seven – ever made it to this point?

Her time to reflect was cut short by Sam winding his way toward the end.

"I could pretend like I actually wrote the way this speech ends, but it was mostly Mrs. Harrison…" he teased, basking in the attention now that he was almost done. "But, I know that nobody here could've gotten to where we are right now without somebody to help them along the way…"

It was true that he sounded practiced and studied once more, but Mary and Marshall were both too wrapped up in his words of gratitude and kindness to even care what came next.

"We all have to be brave sometimes and moving on is sometimes scary, but when we have the people around us that care; it's not always as frightening as it seems…"

His final grin was shy, his cheeks turning just a little bit pink. He breathed deep one more time, taking in the last minute he would see this sea of people all enraptured by what he was saying. There was nothing like it.

"So…thank-you," he didn't have to look at his paper for this part. "And congratulations to the fifth grade class."

The applause exploded the millisecond he was done; Brandi and Jinx whistled and screamed to their heart's content while all the other parents and teachers clapped in earnest, genuinely approving of such a sincere piece of work.

Sam stood for a moment and continued to smile – beam, actually – taking his notes in hand, unable to leave the spotlight just yet. Mary was nowhere near blubbering status or even anywhere close, but Marshall was lost and as they both joined in the appreciation, Mary managed to yank her fingers away from his and wrap her arm around his back, pulling him into her embrace.

"So surreal…" he whispered thickly in her ear. "Unbelievable…"

That it was. And when Mary slipped back from her husband so nobody would begin to gawk – even fondly – she saw that Sam was looking right at her. Not at Marshall, at his friends, at anybody in their row, but at Mary. She could sometimes be the hardest to please, and he had only seconds before he was forced to step down.

Mary met his eyes – direct and focused – and sent him the broadest smile she could manage and a hearty, completely visible thumbs-up. Sam broke into a huge grin and finally turned to regain his place on the risers, but his gaze didn't leave his mother's for a long time after.

After that, everything progressed status quo – for everyone else at least; Mary, and Marshall too she imagined, were feeling a little outside themselves. As Mary sat through each and every fifth grader leaving the risers to go backstage, and every single one walking across to shake hands and receive some sort of schmaltzy certificate, all kinds of memories were flying through her head.

They were the memories she usually tried to forget, but they became as sharp as ever when she was hit over the head with them.

"_Somebody SHOT him? Why?"_

"_Promises don't mean anything…_

"_I don't LIKE cowboys…"_

"_Don't call me sheriff! And don't call me Smush!"_

"_I need to stay here with you…"_

"_I wanted him to know I was there…I wanted him to remember me…"_

"_You should've kept dad safe! If you had kept him safe nobody would've shot him!"_

Stop. Don't do it. Don't go there.

Why did Mary let herself get like this over Marshall's accident? It had been a horrific time – the worst in her whole life – but there were better moments too. She'd never go as far as to say she was somehow grateful for what had happened, but it had definitely brought her and Sam closer together because they'd had to rely on one another.

And as the principal announced the name Mary longed to hear…

"Samuel Mann Shannon."

As she saw her eleven-year-old son stride confidently across the stage, she saw that same face of the seven-year-old that had once also shined in unfathomable joy.

"_I knew it! I told you he would! I told you he would!"_

"_I love you too dad…"_

"_Don't worry mom. I won't call you loser…"_

"_I'll have some cake for you dad; a really big piece…"_

_I love you. I love you, I love you, I love you…_

It wasn't so much the words that brought the lightness back to her heart. It was that face. The way his blue eyes shone, the way the scalloped waves in his hair lay one on top of the other, the way his cheeks pinched together when he grinned so widely, and everything in-between. The positives weren't hard to find if she just looked closely enough.

In the rear of her mind, she realized the celebration had come to a close because everyone was standing up and making their way to separate corners of the gym to greet their children. Brandi and Jinx were gushing all over the place, trying to get at Mary with their enthusiasm as they retreated to a side wall.

"Oh, he was fantastic; he was just fantastic…" Jinx prattled adoringly.

"It's no wonder they picked him," Brandi waved a pompous hand. "He's so obviously the hit of the entire class."

Mary wasn't going to join in the conceited praising, even though it was her child they were bragging on and she had more right than they did. Once they'd sequestered a spot along the wall to wait, Marshall finally spoke for the first time since he'd hissed in Mary's ear.

"I think I may just go up and meet him," he decided, gesturing to where the kids were milling around the stage up front. "It might take him awhile to get over here," he grinned when he turned to try and find Sam among the circle.

"Tell him he was _brilliant_," Brandi mooned. "And to get over here soon so we can tell him just _how_ brilliant!"

Marshall chuckled, "All right." He appealed to his wife, "You want to come with me, Mare?"

Mary knew this was more than just an invitation, that he maybe wanted a second alone from her while they pried their son away, but she wasn't ready just yet. She also wanted to give Marshall his own moment of congratulations. After all, the speech had been in large part about him.

"I'll wait," she said casually. "Take your time."

Marshall nodded, showing he understood and then made his way to his desired destination away from the aunt and grandmother streaming their unbridled satisfaction. Peter was even getting in on it as well, but also doing his part to try and calm the pair of them before people picked up on what was fast becoming smugness.

This left Mary with Mark, who was slouched against the wall in his suit – sans tie – hands in his pockets. He had an agreeable smile on his face, but he rarely left home without it. It wasn't long before he noticed that his ex was looking at him.

"He's good, isn't he?" Mark stated kindly. "He's really well-spoken; you can tell how smart he is."

"Yeah…" Mary stepped over to him, almost appreciative of the excuse to tune out her mother and sister. "Pretty brainy kid."

Mark nodded, "Right."

Mary didn't like the awkwardness. She and Mark usually did pretty well, but she shouldn't have been surprised that they weren't quite managing today. She wondered how Mark might've actually felt watching Sam talk up his parents, more specifically his father, with he – his flesh-and-blood – sitting right there.

"It was…good of you to come," she forced out cordially. "I know it's a long way, and in the middle of the week and everything…" her voice trailed off.

But Mark just nodded in that easygoing way of his.

"I wouldn't have missed it."

But Mary couldn't help feeling a little bit badly he had indeed come all this way just to be reminded he wasn't his child's father and never would be.

"Mark…" she stepped even closer so they were eye-to-eye, knowing it was probably better to just get this out. "Were you…okay with all that? I mean…"

She wasn't sure where she was headed with the phrase and let it taper off. Granted, it didn't really matter if he was okay with it or not because what was done was done, but she figured she had some obligation to at least ask. Even if it did seem odd, here in the middle of a bustling and noisy gym.

As it was, Mark shrugged and leaned up off the wall.

"What's not to be okay with?" he asked Mary. "Sam's intelligent, he's universally adored, and he's even reached the stage where most kids would be bagging their parents instead of standing up in front of a crowd talking about how awesome they are…"

"Mark," she interrupted, shaking her head. "You know that was just for some show and splendor, and you know that's not what I mean."

"No…" Mark shook his head too. "But I thought you might let me get away with pretending."

She probably _should've_ just let him get away with pretending. There were times her unpracticed consideration started to show; she was never sure of the right moments to try and be thoughtful and often opened her mouth when it was best to just let sleeping dogs lie.

"Well, then let's just forget it…" Mary offered to try and backtrack. "I shouldn't have brought it up."

"No-no, now…" it was Mark's turn to do an about-face, and they were close enough now to touch one another; the babble of other happy parents not as loud anymore. "Mary, I…"

He paused, hemming-and-hawing around the issue for a moment but she waited him out.

"I made a choice," he reminded her. "A choice I didn't have to make. When he was born, you offered me the chance to have the 'official' role, and I turned you down…"

"You didn't exactly turn me down," Mary corrected him; hardly daring to believe they were talking about this here. "I all-but begged you to let me and Marshall raise him and you agreed and sometimes I really don't know why…"

She _didn't_ know why. Mark was more responsible than she let herself believe and likely would've gladly accepted the challenge all those years ago. But he'd stepped aside.

"It was important to you, Mary," was his only answer. "I made that decision and I can't just say I regret it now because Sam's standing up there telling everybody his dad's his hero, and he doesn't mean me."

This was true – Mary couldn't imagine how slow the last eleven years would've gone if Mark had come crying every time he had a parental stirring.

"Give yourself some credit, Mare," he advised. "What you said back then had merit. I had a job I couldn't leave in Jersey and I wanted my kid to have two parents just like the next guy…" he explained. "I took you at your word we'd figure it out, and we did."

This was the second time today Mary had been placed on a pedestal, as someone worth admiring and listening to and she still thought it was pretty absurd. When had she become Mother Theresa of the Southwest? Highly doubtful.

"Well then…" she shrugged, unable to hash it out anymore because Mark had sealed all the cracks. "Thanks, I guess."

He smiled at her, his brown eyes so childlike and innocent; the coarse hair on his head always trimmed short because of the way it would turn to curls if it got any longer. The boyish, goofy smirk.

Not to mention the obligatory kiss on the cheek. It was Mark through-and-through.

"Love you, kid…" he claimed as coolly as possible. "You done good with him."

Mary couldn't help being a little caught-off-guard, the skin on her cheek tingling where Mark had pressed his lips against her flesh. She pondered that first declaration, the three words swirling and intermingling in her brain as she tried to wrap her mind around them.

She always wondered. She always wondered if it wasn't just the need for Mary to be happy, the want for Sam to achieve permanence. She knew Mark loved her – hell, she loved him too on some bizarre, otherworldly level. The question that forever persisted as far as he was concerned was how much.

She never knew how much.

Meanwhile, Marshall expected to have to coax Sam out amongst the mob of fifth graders congregating in little corners on the stage, below the stage, and generally all over the gymnasium. But, it became an easier and much less daunting task than anticipated when he saw his boy chatting animatedly with his teacher, a Styrofoam cup of orange juice in hand. They were posted on the ground, not upstage, in the lower right corner by the sound system cart.

Now that Marshall had spotted him, he was going to have to figure out how to give an abbreviated version of everything rattling around in his head. There were a million things to say to Sam, but he knew he'd have to settle.

He was just a few feet away when he was noticed himself, and when Sam turned he waved and called out at once.

"Hey dad!" he beckoned him over as though Marshall was not already coming. Once his father arrived, "You want a drink of my orange juice? They left the pulp out; I know you hate that…"

"Thanks man; I'm good," Marshall assured him, endeared to the way his son had such a carefree attitude.

He decided an arm around Sam's shoulder was enough at the moment, and instead appealed to the teacher, Mrs. Harrison, to get some of his feelings out in a less-blubbering manner. She was a soft-looking woman, mid-height with a slightly rounded face and cropped reddish-brown hair that swung around her face. She'd taught fifth grade a long time and was well-schooled.

Marshall reached to shake her hand, "Hi. I don't think we've met; my wife has been coming to all of Sam's school functions this year and what have you…"

She pumped his fingers up and down, "Linda Harrison. You must be the dad we hear so much about."

She had a kind smile and Marshall wondered if she'd meant to say 'heard' implying today instead of 'hear' as in all the time, but it wasn't important and he brushed over it.

"I imagine that would be me," the man continued. "Marshall Mann. It's nice to meet you."

Mrs. Harrison slipped her fingers out of his and cocked an eyebrow as though she were listening up.

"I didn't catch your first name," she wanted clarified.

"Marshall," he repeated.

"I…" she still looked marginally out-of-the-loop, and it was Sam who finally cleared everything up.

"Marshall is his first name," he voiced casually, still gulping his orange juice. "His official title is Inspector Marshal Marshall Mann – the first Marshal has one 'L' and the second one has two."

"How interesting," Mrs. Harrison proclaimed with a light laugh. "I guess your parents weren't expecting a career in law enforcement."

"No, ironically enough," Marshall joined in the chuckling. "Since my father was a Marshal and so were the two generations before him. I think they thought actually donning their oldest with the moniker might inspire a shift in occupations, but alas…" he spread his arms wide, as though to indicate nothing could've prevented it. "You can't keep the fish out of water."

Sam smiled appropriately at the comparison, seemingly not minding Marshall's arm curled over his shoulder.

"Well, Sam here could not be more of a delight…" the woman segued swiftly, and Marshall had sensed it coming. "I was very proud listening to him address everyone today."

"Makes two of us," Marshall agreed, and he was glad to see that Sam was grinning up at him. Using the opportunity while he had his attention, "Did you tell her thank-you for helping you write the speech?"

"More than once," Mrs. Harrison chimed in before Sam could respond.

"Thanks, though," Sam opted to repeat at his father's urging. "I really didn't have a clue what to say, so I'm glad I had someone to ask – since I didn't want mom or dad to hear until today."

"It was my pleasure," the woman promised him, gazing down into his face with that warm, benevolent teacher's-smile. "You're going to do so well in middle school, Sam. I have complete confidence."

"Thank-you," he said again. "I hope I like it. I've been wondering if I'll get lost or I'll forget what class happens at what time."

"You'll get it all figured out," Marshall had few qualms, graduating to patting Sam's shoulder. "You have an impeccable memory."

Sam tried to appear modest, not sure how to respond to the comment, obviously not thinking he had much to do with it. His recall was a God-given talent, although sometimes Marshall speculated. Mary also had an excellent storage system.

"I guess," was his eventual answer as he shrugged. "But you're right. I bet it's not that hard once I know my way around."

"Exactly right," Marshall reinforced. And then, because what he was about to say was absolutely true, "We better get back to Jinx and the gang, bud. She and Brandi can't wait to tell you what a bang-up job you did."

"I'll bet," Sam laughed. "I could hear Brandi screeching all the way from where you guys were sitting," he reported. "Sure mom loved that."

He did know his mother quite well.

"Well, you know Jinx and Brandi," his father played along. "We say they're full of zip, zing, and zealour."

"Zealour is not a word," Sam shook his head, always loving the opportunity to correct his father. "You mean zealous."

"You are very much too smart for your own good," Marshall allowed his hand to shift and to rub Sam's hair.

"Brandi is my aunt," the son decided to share with Mrs. Harrison. "My mom's sister. And Jinx is their mom."

"Sounds like you had quite a crew," the woman was a good listener.

"Is Mark here too?" he asked before going on, looking to Marshall for the answer.

"Yes," the man nodded politely. "He got in pretty early this morning, but he made it."

For Sam's sake, Marshall was thrilled about this but it didn't do wonders for Mary's mood even though he scarcely minded. However, he hadn't anticipated Mrs. Harrison's response – she obviously thought it was all right to engage further since Sam had detailed a portion of his family very nonchalantly.

"Is Mark an uncle?" she asked.

The pause was brief, not at all cloaking or awkward but both Marshall and Sam felt it. It might not even have mattered, except when you considered the nature of Sam's speech it did. Just a smidgen. Just a little bit. Just enough to prompt the hitch.

But Sam gave a very diplomatic response.

"Peter's my uncle," he turned it around very neatly. "Mark is a friend of my mom's. He lives in New Jersey. That's where she grew up."

This put Marshall back at ease.

"How nice of him to come all this way," Mrs. Harrison remarked.

"Yeah," Sam nodded, smiling but no longer looking at his dad. "It was."

Marshall was very satisfied with the way that had gone down and opted to keep things moving on the off-chance they progressed into murkier waters.

"Start heading over there, all right?" he instructed, pointing to the wall where Mary and the squad were stationed. "I'll be along in a minute; why don't you stop at the table and get something to eat on the way?"

Sam agreed to this, bid his teacher farewell, and immediately started his march across the room to greet the rest of his family. Marshall watched his head of brown waves blend through the crowd, the way he stopped to say hi to a few people. The man had only wanted a moment with the teacher, so he took his chance.

"Thanks again for giving him the assistance on the speech," he expressed. "Mary – his mother and I – both appreciate it."

"Oh, it was no problem," she swore with a no-nonsense wave of her hand. "Honestly, he came up with most of it on his own. In fact, I find it hard to believe you and I have never met before now," she shifted. "I was starting to feel like I already knew you. Sam talks about you _all the time_."

So, she hadn't meant 'heard' earlier. She had absolutely meant 'hear.'

"Well…" Marshall went for sheepish, stuffing his hands in his pockets. "He's a good kid. Mary and I are quite lucky."

"I'm very glad you're doing well these days," Mrs. Harrison put across nicely. "When Sam told me what you went through, I couldn't believe it. It sounds like you're fortunate to be alive."

"I am," Marshall reinforced, something he believed every day. "I really am, and what Sam said is true without question. I'm floored when I think about how worse it could've been without Mary. She was a champ with him."

The teacher nodded, and Marshall sensed they'd had enough serious talk and knew it was time to say his goodbyes.

"Thanks so much," he repeated. "I better get back to Sam."

"Of course," she inclined her head politely. "It was nice to see you Mr. Shannon."

Oh. Whoa. Whoops.

Marshall had introduced himself properly, but guessed with all the confusion in the Marshal-Marshall conundrum, his ending title had escaped her notice. She knew Mary and Marshall were married, she was familiar with Sam's last name, and so it was an honest mistake.

But still. _Mr. Shannon_? Wow.

He didn't know why, but he let it go, "You too."

With that, he left the woman in peace to dote on all of her remaining students milling about the parents and relatives that had come to see them off. He wove among all the guests, his eyes set on his group still bunched together against the side wall between two doors. Sam had made it, and was being what could only be described as suffocated by Jinx and Brandi. They were plastering him with kisses and hugs, Peter clapping him on the back.

It gave Marshall a smile, because Sam obviously didn't mind all the attention even though he had become less touchy-feely in his older years.

And then there was Mark who shook his hand and, faintly, as Marshall approached he could hear the man offering hearty congratulations.

"You were awesome," he assured the boy. "Made me feel like I knew a celebrity seeing you stand up there, hearing everybody make such a fuss."

Sam giggled, "They only clapped for a minute or two. It wasn't a big deal."

"That's what _you_ think," Mark teased. "I think you reached rock star status – easy."

"We'll have to think of a stage name for him," Peter got in on the action. "Sam the Shadowed Squire or something of that nature."

"Oh man…" Sam rolled his eyes. "I'm sure I won't get hammered for that."

Mark and Peter laughed at his perception and Marshall joined in once he'd arrived. But now his glance had shifted to Mary standing back, watching the scene from afar with her arms crossed over her middle. She was folding into herself slightly, as she often did when she wasn't sure what to say, how to say it, or to express what she really felt. But then again, sometimes she was content as just an observer.

But just the same, Sam had become as adept as everyone else at knowing when a good time was for Mary and when things were best left alone. He also knew how much one could yearn for approval when Mary was often so reluctant to give it. The harder you worked, the worse you wanted it.

That was why he continued to drift, his attention not held with Peter and Mark, even Jinx and Brandi who were being pretty relentless. Who he wanted was Mary, and he separated himself from the throng to approach her. Marshall decided it might be all right for him to accompany his son, just in case Mary went for the short-and-sweet approach. Or short and not-so-sweet, as the case could sometimes be.

The remaining four individuals migrated back to the breakfast buffet, leaving Mary, Marshall, and Sam blissfully alone. Mary was chewing her nail. She did that when she was anxious.

"Hey Smush…" she removed the nail only briefly. "Good show."

"I don't believe I managed to mention, Sam…" Marshall picked up the thread. "You surpassed outstanding. What you said about the two of us was very…" he tried to find a good word, but he really couldn't come up with one.

What described the adult fashion in which he'd spoken combined with the utter presence of heart behind it? He had seemed childlike but grown all in the same three minutes.

"Mature," was his final choice, although even that was not what he meant. "Mom and I might be bursting with pride."

Leave it to Marshall to just lay it on the table, even as he swept Sam into a sideways hug and kissed the top of his hair. He had to do it; he had to find some way to show his gratitude while also bestowing Sam a minimal amount of embarrassment.

But Sam knew how Marshall felt. His dad never made a secret of it. It was his mother with whom he was concerned, and the hope in his big blue eyes certainly showed it. Mary thought it made him look like that seven-year-old again – the one who wanted so desperately for everything to come up roses someday.

"Mom?" he whispered tentatively, dipping his lids to catch her stare. "Do you think I did all right?"

Of course she thought he'd done all right. She thought he'd done fantastic. But there were a whole slew of things preventing her from saying it. It meant accepting he was growing up, it meant acknowledging that she'd formed qualities she never thought she'd possess; it meant all sorts of feelings she couldn't be sure she was ready to face.

Instead, she looked at Marshall and she knew – just from knowing Marshall – that if he were speaking what would be coming out of his mouth.

Mare, come on.

Come on. Come on.

"I think you kicked ass, Sam."

The laughter that sounded from both men issued from completely opposite ends of the spectrum. Sam's was approving and gleeful, Marshall's full of shame and the hint of actual amusement. But he knew Mary, just as she knew him.

"That's a compliment?" Sam questioned, but he knew it was.

"Something like that," Mary teased with an affectionate smile. "You're the best, Sam. Come on, bud…"

Unlike Marshall, Mary didn't care whether he was embarrassed or not and maybe he wanted her acceptance enough that he didn't care, because he didn't hesitate when his mother knelt down and pulled him into her arms.

Mary really didn't know what made her kneel, because she realized with bent legs that Sam was taller than she was. It was the oddest sensation, and so was the one that circulated in her veins and created the urge to just lift him up. And yet she noticed as she rumpled the back of that dress shirt that she couldn't have done even if she'd wanted to. Years upon years of Sam claiming he was 'too big' to be held had finally come true. She wouldn't be able to pick him up anymore.

"Thanks mom…" he whispered his appreciation in full and she couldn't help herself from squeezing him tight and doing her part to reciprocate.

"Thanks for being my boy."

And, not for the first time, Mary thought in that moment as she nuzzled her son close like he was just a little boy that if she were to _never_ let him go, it would still be just one second too soon.

**A/N: Schools do this, I swear LOL! They find that kid that's been put through the wringer and make them inspire everyone else. I like to think Sam fits that build.**

**Two to go! Love to you guys!**


	22. Chapter 22

**A/N: You guys are awesome and I love you! This is a long one!**

XXX

_Twelve Years, September:_

"Mare?"

She heard Marshall, but didn't really hear him all at once. She knew he was speaking, and yet for some reason it did not seem important to answer. It was the same way she stared across at the dance floor from her post at the bar. She saw Jinx twirling around, her skirt fanning out, her hair flying in all directions, but she _didn't_ see her the way a normal person used their eyes to look at all around them.

"Mary?"

It was like everything had gone transparent; see-through and clear. There was this fuzzy film in front of her vision; the same kind coating her ears. All of it was muffled and none of it mattered.

"Mary, I'm talking to you."

Marshall was now not only talking, but touching her arm. It was the feel of another person that snapped her back to life. The music was garish and loud as it blasted from the speakers. The babble of happy discussion among reception-goers was heightened. Mary's hand was sweating unpleasantly against her glass of champagne, which had begun to perspire on its own in the warmth of the ballroom. Her cheeks were hot even though she was sitting right under a blasting vent, and she suddenly felt prickly all over at having Marshall's fingers laid against the fabric of her jacket.

Marshall's brow was furrowed when she finally looked at him. He seemed concerned, not for her well-being so much as her sanity. He thought she was touched in the head.

"Huh?" Mary finally croaked stupidly; she allowed herself another swallow of champagne when she heard herself sound like a frog.

"Are you…all right?" her husband asked with a strange pause halfway through. "You've been over here awhile. I hope you're not brooding."

Didn't the fact that he'd brought it up tell her he _knew_ she was brooding and he wanted her to stop it? Well, he could join the club. She'd been the perfect lady for the entire evening, playing the doting daughter; feigning cheerfulness, shaking hands, pretending she was filled to the brim with unrivaled enchantment. She'd _earned_ her sulkiness.

"I'm not brooding," Mary claimed anyway, unable to stop herself from gulping another sip of champagne. "I'm thinking."

It wasn't a total lie. She _was_ thinking, however darkly.

"And what might you be thinking about?" Marshall pressed curiously, sliding onto a stool beside his wife.

He signaled to the bartender with a wave and ordered his own drink. The man passed him a napkin and a stir while he went off to mix, leaving the couple by their lonesome. Mary had no desire to be goaded into revealing anything in her mind. It wasn't anything Marshall couldn't guess anyway.

All the change. It was creeping up on her.

"So," Marshall stated, watching her eye the last few sips of her drink to avoid looking at him. "What's rattling around in my girl's pretty little head?"

He was going to get smacked later for the 'pretty little head' comment, but right now Mary was too busy pondering a neutral answer to his question. Her eye caught the ring that shimmered on her fourth finger, which made her gaze stray to the sleeve of her jacket hitting her wrists.

Here was something.

"Jinx was pissed I had to wear a suit," she grumbled, downing the last of her beverage in a single gulp, fully prepared to beckon the bartender back for something stronger. "She must've complained for thirty minutes."

This was a rounded-up estimate, but why split hairs?

And Mary hadn't picked the outfit on purpose. Early that morning, just when all the wedding preparations were beginning, the inspector had received a call from Stan begging her to drive to Santa Fe to take a meeting with the police department there. Stan himself was already in attendance but the feds had been so testy and uncooperative he was forced to bring either Mary or Marshall in to sweeten the deal. He'd apologized in earnest that it wasn't able to be Marshall, but thanks to his not-so-new position with improving the greater southwest WITSEC he was no longer the man for the job.

As if Stan hadn't been annoyed enough, getting called out of retirement, however briefly to discuss the situation.

Granted, Mary had made it back about twenty minutes before the ceremony but getting changed at that point had been out of the question. So, she stood in her suit of black-and-white next to Brandi in that gaudy shocking pink dress and Jinx about had a fit.

Fortunately, once the vows began she forgot all about it but it hadn't made Mary feel any better. George, bless him, actually thought it was funny and had helped his new bride cheer up.

"I thought you and Brandi were quite a sight up there," Marshall mused as he thanked the bartender for his drink.

"Scotch neat," Mary interrupted while their caretaker was still nearby.

Marshall shot her a warning look at the order, "You don't think you've had enough?"

Mary scoffed as she turned to him, giving him her best incredulous face.

"I had two glasses of champagne," she reminded him. "Some of us can hold our liquor, lanky. Just because you magically transform into more of a bumbling fool than you usually are under the influence of three sips, doesn't mean we all do."

Marshall accepted this and went back to his prior statement, "George was right," he decided. "You and Brandi were like a classic parody of a wedding couple – Brandi the weeping, appropriately moved wife, and you the uncomfortable, get-me-out-of-here-as-fast-as-you-can husband."

"Nice picture," Mary grumped; fiddling with the napkin she'd been given.

"Jinx made her peace with it," Marshall reminded her. "I think your attire is the least of her worries at this point."

Truer words had never been spoken, Mary thought as she glanced reluctantly back to the dance floor. Jinx was radiant as she spun around with George, trying to teach him her fancy dance moves. She'd worn her hair up, but it was beginning to fall out in wisps that framed her face. Her dress was off-white and quite tasteful for someone of her age, off-the-shoulder and tea-length with a flowy skirt.

"Yeah…" was all the older daughter could say. "I guess."

She was back to not paying attention. Brandi and Peter were doing some sort of embarrassing jitterbug near Jinx and George, Brandi sashaying all over the place. Sam and Jesse were congregating at one of the round tables with George's granddaughter, Allison, who was a year older than Sam, and Jesse's companion Ellie.

"Babe, just tell if you're not okay," Marshall pleaded without preamble. "I want you to be able to enjoy the party and not worry about keeping everything to yourself all night."

She sighed just in time for her scotch to show up. She clasped the glass firmly in her fingers and took an unwisely large chug, which burned her throat. With her esophagus tingling like it was, she had a good excuse not to answer.

And yet, "It's just a lot," she choked hoarsely. "All at once."

Marshall considered as he took a cautious sip of his own drink, drumming his free hand on the counter top.

"Nothing wrong with that," he said with a swallow. "It is a lot. It happened fast, it was marginally unexpected, and no matter how much you love Jinx or how much you like George…"

"Is this going somewhere?" Mary cut in shortly. "Is there an end in sight? We can't just skip to the, 'I get it' and 'I love you anyway' portion?"

Marshall nodded slowly, a half-smile playing around his lips. He leaned over and pecked her cheek lightly, granting her wish.

"I get it and I love you," he repeated as told. "But no 'anyway,'" he rectified, sharply enough she would take notice, but gently enough to be relaxed. "No 'anyway' about it."

Mary almost copied him in the leisurely, sedate nod with the pleasant, half-tired smirk. They were forever told they were some measure of two peas in a pod, although Mary was so used to their movements she never even thought to look at it as such.

"You think she'll actually be happy?" Mary wondered aloud, taking a more acceptable sized sip as she turned on her barstool to scrutinize Jinx. "You know. For any…extended length of time?"

She really didn't know why she was asking. The answer was pretty obvious.

"She certainly _seems_ happy," Marshall voiced, also taking his turn to examine as though to confirm his beliefs. "She's been different since she met George. Although, I hope you would concede at this point that she was doing fine before him. Functioning sober does wonders for a person," in an ironic moment, he drained his drink to accompany these words of wisdom.

Mary shook her head, not able to take her eyes off her mother's flushed cheeks, her vivacious smile, the way she laughed at everything George said or did. They'd been out on the dance floor for what seemed like hours now, Jinx completely in her element to show off every balletic move she'd ever learned. George was charmed and she was in heaven.

"They never looked like that," Mary remarked in a low voice.

For the first time, she felt the effects of the alcohol. It was a little bit of a struggle to get out five words and they seemed to slur together on a delay; she didn't hear them back for several seconds after she'd spoken.

"Who?" Marshall asked, confused.

"Jinx and my dad…" his wife sighed and rotated back to face the bar, sliding her napkin back and forth on the shiny surface. "Even on their best days. They never looked like that," she jerked her head at the couple.

Marshall wasn't sure whether he was supposed to agree with this statement, to refute it, to maybe say it didn't matter, or any combination of the three. Mary had gone a little unfocused, but he still felt like she was here with him. She was coherent, just without her usual guard.

"My dad hated that she was a dancer…" she recalled with an ill-timed hiccup. "Well, not _hated_ it so much…" she clarified, still keeping her eyes fixated on the napkin so she wouldn't have to look at Marshall. "But he thought it was a shitty choice for a career. He said she'd never make any money doing it, and if she wasn't talented enough to go earn cash on Broadway she might as well hang it up."

Unexpectedly, this made Marshall sad even though Mary was prattling it off fairly evenly. He always took James with a grain of salt, letting himself believe that aside from the illegalities he performed on the side he had put up a pretty good front – enough of one that Mary had bought it at seven years old.

"He said that?" her husband whispered, just the idea unable to compute; he couldn't imagine uttering such a thing to his wife no matter how dead-end the marriage might be. "It may have been a little impractical with two young daughters, but to just crush her dreams…"

"Marshall, come on…" Mary sniped, reaching to take another drink on instinct before she remembered she'd ended up empty. "I used to believe the same thing. Probably got it from him."

Probably.

"I like to think you recognized Jinx simply needed to find employment when she was living with you, whether that included dancing or something else," Marshall sugarcoated quite swiftly. "Am I right?"

"Are you ever wrong?" Mary grunted with great sarcasm.

She shut her eyes for a moment because the room had started to have a twirling, tilted quality to it. She knew she shouldn't order anything else and was going to have to force herself to stop slogging them back. If she wanted to sound halfway intelligent for the rest of the night, it was essential she keep her mind clear.

"You okay?" Marshall asked at once.

Mary shook her head for the second time, but quickly so he would know it was just to ward off all the spinning colors and shapes. Carefully, she slipped her lids back open and faced him; he was watching her with that telltale look of agonizing worry. It was dulled in the sensitivity of his features, but sometimes Mary thought she put him through the wringer so frequently it never went away.

"I'm trying," was all she could say, wanting to prove a point. "Marshall, I'm trying…"

Sometimes trying wasn't all it took.

"I know you are," he murmured kindly. "That will always be good enough for me."

Mary thought about asking him if he would let her peer into her letters later, if she could request to read one or two and he could pull them from the depths of wherever he kept him these days. But she thought better of it; poring over those words was only going to make her feel worse, not better.

She wasn't even entirely sure where the heartache came from. She'd rarely thought of Jinx and James as a couple and George stepping into the picture forty plus years down the road replaced absolutely nothing. It was just the change; the change was always what she fought to the bitter end.

"I believe it is time for me to rejoin the festivities," Marshall suggested when Mary didn't respond to what he'd said.

He stood from the stool, smoothing his jacket and leaving a tip for the bartender.

"Why don't you come with me?" he tried to ask, but it was voiced like more of a demand. "Sit with the boys and Ellie and Allison. Don't stay over here by yourself all night."

Congregating with the men and _not_ their dates – as Sam constantly reminded her – didn't sound awful but she was shaky at best on conversation with Allison. She would turn fourteen in March and her father, Trevor something-or-other, had just become Mary's step-brother. Although the interaction would be very minimal considering Trevor lived in Maine, extra family members were never something Mary did well with. George was enough.

"In a little while," she tried to compromise. "Make sure I can still walk before I get up," she attempted to tease.

Marshall raised his eyebrows and peered inward at her, showing he didn't buy a word of it but Mary was determined to play him for the fool.

"I'm fine," she nodded as convincingly as she could. "Really."

Marshall knew when there was nothing else to be done and conceded defeat.

"Promise you'll join us soon?" he bargained.

Mary didn't do promises, but for Marshall she would barter as close as she could without actually saying the words.

"Count on it."

Her husband accepted this and finally made his way back to the group, weaving among guests and round tables, shaking hands and fielding congratulations. He was a natural and took it all in stride, even though Mary's family wasn't even his.

No, she reminded herself. He _was_ a Shannon. He'd vowed and he'd never broken his word. Twelve years together ought to convince his former partner they were bound on both the Shannon and Mann side of the fence. She couldn't forget that so easily.

Facing the drink selection in front of her once more and longing for anything in any of those bottles, Mary reluctantly held her tongue and saw that the bowl of snacks that had been left out was down to its last shells. Maybe she was going to quit putting away the beverages, but she couldn't say no to gaining a few while she sat sedentary.

"Can you hit me up with some mixed nuts over here?" she called brazenly to the man behind the counter, waggling the dish to show there was nothing in it. "And none of that salt-free, fat-free garbage. Load me with cholesterol and crap," she finished her request.

"Coming up," the man chuckled, slipping the dish from her fingers and going to work on a refill.

This left Mary with just her napkin and empty glass, not much to do with her fluttering, antsy fingers while she waited for something to crack and chew on. She was considering ordering something less strong to bring her down off the peak of the wave, when she heard a shuffling behind her.

Whirling about on the stool, she found Jesse standing in front of her. He looked – a word Mary generally hated – but _adorable_ in his three-piece suit. It was grey with matching vest and a sky blue tie, his blonde hair trimmed just enough so that it fell perfectly over his head, stick-straight as always.

"Hey Jess," she greeted him. "What's up?"

There were only a few answers to be had here – there was no reason for Jesse to come over to the bar if not to see Mary, unless he planned on kicking back a rum and coke.

"Oh, not much," he shrugged. "Are you having a good time?"

Mary wasn't sure this qualified as a good time, but a bad time would be awfully dramatic.

"Decent enough," was her response just as her lackey returned with her treat. She grabbed the bowl and offered it to Jesse, "Have a nut."

"Thanks," he scooped up a whole handful in his fingers and started popping them in his mouth at once. "Can I ask you something?" he posed around his chewing.

"I think you already did," Mary was mumbling also, having stuffed in a few more nuts than she'd originally intended. "But you can ask me something else too."

Jesse giggled, "Well…" he considered briefly and then, "I think maybe Ellie wants to dance with me."

Mary couldn't stop herself from raising her eyebrows in spectacular fashion, so high they might disappear into her hairline. She even wiggled them a few times in her surprise, which made Jesse giggle feverishly again.

"What?" he laughed, although he knew very well 'what.'

"Don't give me that, outlaw," Mary wagged her finger, still smirking. "You can't come over here and give up _that_ kind of information and _not_ expect me to get my shots in. Don't know your aunt very well, do you?"

But he _did_ know his aunt, and Mary always toned it down for his benefit. He was sensitive and sweet, and definitely didn't need to be poked fun of.

"So, where's the question come in?" she pressed curiously. "You want to know how to foxtrot or waltz or something? Because you're barking up the wrong tree, man. That's Jinx's department."

And yet it was clear from Jesse's face, the way he turned a little awkward, that was _exactly_ why he'd come over. You couldn't dance with the girl if you didn't know how, and Jinx was otherwise occupied at the moment. He was smart enough not to go to Brandi with the question because she was likely to bawl over all the cuteness and make a huge scene out of some innocent swaying around.

"Jess, I'm really not a dancer," Mary was forced to admit. "You'd be better off going with your instincts than mine on this."

But he looked desperate and also feared being humiliated, "Can't you show me something?" he pleaded. "Anything? I don't even know where to start, and doesn't the boy have to lead or something like that?"

"Only if you're following _every single step_," Mary told him. "If it's a fast song, just get her out there and jump around a whole bunch – if nothing else it'll make her laugh," his aunt decided. "And a slow song is even easier; just sway back and forth."

"_No way_ am I doing a slow song," Jesse nixed at once. "What if she expects me to _kiss_ her?"

"Oh…!" Mary waved a disgusted hand and made a face, her tongue sticking out the side of her mouth. "Gross Jess – not while we're eating! You're eleven years old for God's sake and Ellie has never struck me as the smooching type."

"Yeah, but if she thought it was all _romantic_ or something…" Jesse obviously couldn't quite let this go and allowed his words to trail away, looking for more confirmation.

"All right, no slow songs," Mary conceded, drumming her fingernails on the leg of her black slacks and thinking.

She couldn't imagine the uproar if she went and boogied out on the dance floor with her nephew – the pictures, the noises, the gawking; all of it was too much to bear, and she'd been doing so well adopting her usual sulky self for the majority of the reception. Why ruin that now?

Not to mention, her dance knowledge really was pretty minimal. The best she'd be able to do would be to teach Jesse the box step, but that wasn't going to help if he was boycotting the more gushy tunes. She was basically walking into a minefield full of wiggling hips if she took him out there.

"Do you even _want_ to dance with her?" she finally asked. "Or are you just doing it because it's what _she_ wants?"

"I don't know," Jesse shrugged nonchalantly. "I thought it might be sort of fun if I knew how, but I don't want her to think I can't. She might not like me anymore."

That trademark fear of rejection never completely left Jesse, even over something as ridiculous as tapping around at a wedding. Mary severely doubted that Ellie would dump her friend because he didn't have the moves she envisioned.

"She likes you for you, bud," Mary couldn't resist reassuring him. "Not because you can shimmy-and-shake like some Hugh Heffner."

"_Who_?" Jesse was way too young to understand the reference, and Mary guessed it was under the influence that she had uttered it. "Who the heck is Hugh Heffner?"

"Never mind…" Mary shook her head, crunching another honey-roasted to distract from the name. "The point is, if Ellie is as good a friend as she's been so far, she's not going to ditch you even if you happen to suck at dancing."

Mary doubted this would satisfy him – the excuses sounded feeble even to her. She might have to settle for just going out to size up the dance floor, to maybe get Jesse out of his shell, and then she could split at the drop of a hat. Reluctantly, she slipped the bowl – which was almost empty once again – back onto the counter and slid down off her stool.

"Let's just see what we're dealing with," she muttered, not about to sign on for good. "No promises."

But Jesse was an expert at daring to hope and immediately took off at a fast-walk for the floor at the other end of the room, Mary striding along behind him. She felt conspicuous in what could only be described as funeral attire, looking like she'd just arrived from court. She'd swept her hair back with a headband so her bangs were out of her face, but otherwise she was dressed for the office and she hoped Marshall was right in his belief that Jinx had gotten over it.

The music was much louder on the hardwood, booming out of enormous speakers that were like bookends on the corners. Jinx, George, Brandi, and Peter were still hustling around with a couple of other dwellers. Sam, Ellie, and Allison watched from a nearby table; Ellie appeared wistful, but Sam was making conversation with Allison and wasn't paying much attention.

"All right…" Mary was not a fan of this at all, but now that they were here, she wondered if she could get away with some sort of an introductory step without too many people noticing. "Come out here – take my hand…"

Jesse wasn't shy about that and immediately slipped his fingers into hers, allowing her to lead him out to a secluded spot on the floor. The wood was slick from people sliding across it all night and the lights above in the chandelier were hot. Mary could taste that champagne mixing with the scotch again and hoped she wasn't going to puke.

"Okay, man…" she couldn't stop looking over her shoulder with every word that escaped her mouth. "Put your arms around my waist…"

This, in and of itself made Jesse laugh but he did as told. Mary decided to ignore the fact that the song currently playing was nowhere near the style they needed. But it might keep others from staring.

"We're going to make a box…" she told him. "It's easy; just make sure you don't stomp all over my feet…" she realized with this instruction that she should've taken her boots off.

But at that moment, the tune faded out and another one sprung to life directly above Mary's right ear which about deafened her for the next eternity. It was a song she didn't recognize, one with an awful rap back-beat and some guy speaking rather than singing – to the audience, she guessed?

"What the hell is this?" Mary voiced to no one in particular. "The _Platinum_ Band?" she went on with disdain as she heard more of the lyrics. "Is that supposed to impress me?"

But a throng was definitely forming; the older guests were shuffling away while the younger ones began to congregate – Sam, Allison, and Ellie among them. Mary decided it was up to her to appeal to Jesse.

"Do you know it?" she asked.

"Nuh-uh…" he shook his head, but Mary's question was answered by the arrival of the other three.

Strike that – four. Marshall had joined in.

"It's the cha-cha slide!" Ellie burst excitedly, seizing Jesse's hand and swinging him in to stand next to her.

"The _what_?" Mary needed clarified.

"It's a kid's dance, babe," Marshall filled her in; she should've known. "Orchestrated by D.J. Casper, otherwise known as Mr. C."

"Good lord, I don't even want to know how you know that…" she shook her head. "Anyway, you're not going to catch me shipping out in the coffin trying to figure out the logistics of this thing."

She made to leave the floor, deciding Jesse could take care of himself now that Sam had joined in with the rest of the crowd; Brandi, Peter, Jinx, and George had opted to stick around as well. However, she hadn't banked on Marshall closing his fingers around her arm in an effort to get her to stay.

"It tells you what to do," he informed his wife with a very boyish grin. "No instructions required."

Still, Mary wanted to escape more than ever but it was too late. A line had formed to face the collection of round tables and according to Casper the Friendly Ghost or whoever the vocalist was, they were about to get 'funky.'

"No way…" she tried to keep the laugh out, but it wasn't going well.

"Don't tell me you're not going to get funky!" Marshall began to drag her in to stand beside him. "I think you give new meaning to funky."

Whatever that meant.

"I am _not_ doing this…" she growled as everyone in line began to clap their hands to the beat, which happened to consist of her family alone. "I am not using the opportunity to get in touch with my inner homie…"

"He says, 'Everybody clap your hands!'" Marshall declared joyfully, completely ignoring her stance and smashing her between him and Sam so that the men's elbows crashed into hers when they applauded.

Mary huffed a very annoyed sigh and tried to listen to the lyrics, mostly to see what she could omit, feeling like she was part of some conga-line with everybody end-to-end.

"_To the left…take it back now ya'll…"_

Unfortunately, Mary did not care enough to move with the others, and when her party slid to the left and then backwards, she was left standing alone where they'd started.

"Mom, come on!" Sam called from her rear. "Just listen! He tells you what to do – it's easy!"

By the time she tuned in again, they'd reached the 'cha-cha' part of this supposed slide, and from what Mary could glean that just meant you shuffled with whoever was near until the next part of the song. Marshall seized her around the waist and began to spin her. Her common sense kicked in and she lifted the heel of her boot so she twirled better, but three drinks under her belt made her feel hot and tipsy with all the movement.

"You heard him…" Marshall swooned in her ear, his breath warm on her neck. "Cha-cha…_real smooth_…"

"You are shameless, doofus," she replied with a reluctant grin, but her extremities began to tingle when his hands grazed her hips, fingers slipping and fondling over each and every one of her curves.

"Marshall, stop it…" she forced herself to hiss, not wanting to make a spectacle and knowing she couldn't completely trust herself under the liquor. "If we're gonna do this crap, get back in line…"

A half-satisfied, half-disappointed grin was playing on his lips as he obeyed and dragged her back to the group.

But as it turned out, the dance blasting through the speakers was extremely repetitious and Mary was able to pick up the movements quickly. The boppers also figured out pretty fast that standing in a line didn't give them much room and they fanned out, Mary pairing off with Jesse and Ellie; Marshall occupied with Sam.

"Mary, you criss-cross!" Ellie instructed, hopping on the spot and weaving her feet one-over-the-other and back again. "Like this!"

"I like that part," Jesse decided as he gave it a try. "Do it with me Mary…"

Mary wasn't the best at saying no to Jesse and took both his hands in hers. His face was shining with glee at having escaped an official dance with Ellie and he hung on tight, obviously not wanting to fall over.

"You ready, man?" his aunt asked, gripping tight. "On three, all right?"

He nodded while Mary counted him off. When they got to three, they both jumped and swapped feet and it was all Mary could do not to let Jesse tip over backwards. But he laughed out loud in earnest and allowed himself to pitch forward into Mary's arms once he saw he was going to lose balance.

"Whoa, hold the reins outlaw!" she cried, sweeping him up with her big hands. "Don't think a dual-hop is such a good idea on this one."

In a moment of spontaneity, she pushed him outward with her arm and spun him around like a top; easier to do than anticipated because he was such a string bean.

"Whee!" he called. "It's like being in those spinning teacups at the amusement park…"

Last Mary remembered, Jesse had barfed on the spinning teacups and she slowed her approach to the twirling in hopes that-that would not happen again.

"Try it out on your lady, then," Mary was decisive, getting him to rotate over to Ellie in her pale pink dress, her long sand-colored hair falling in a sheet down her back. "A spin and a dip always gets the ladies, Jess. Well – _most_ ladies anyway," she conceded with a reference to herself.

Jesse was predictably nervous about this but the lyrics to the song had long since been forgotten and he took Ellie's hand, who was a good and obliging sport.

"I'll spin you, and then you spin me," she suggested. "But don't drop me if you go for the 'dip' thing."

This made Mary laugh and saw that her work on this front was done. Instead, she turned her attentions to Marshall and Sam who looked fantastically awful trying to bop all over the floor; Marshall was traditionally a fairly decent dancer, but Sam had not had a lot of practice.

"I don't think I can get a handle on this one, Smush…" she admitted as she jived over, watching him bounce up and down at the knees, Marshall swiveling his hips in an Elvis-esque fashion. "What do you call those moves?"

"Not like they have a name," Sam stopped immediately in the presence of his mother, at a classic age to be embarrassed. "I was just fooling around."

"Got the fool part right," she stuck her finger in his chest. "You don't think dad and I can bust one or two?"

Her fingers curled into Marshall's and she got some of _her_ hips in on the action, much to Marshall's pleasure and surprise.

"Look who's getting into the spirit," he remarked, copying her movements, fanning her in and out, her feet somehow finding the beat and the rhythm all on her own.

"It's 'cause you had about ten drinks," Sam decided with a smirk. "I was watching you at the bar."

"Three," Mary corrected, still trying to stay in step with Marshall. "Three is not ten."

"Still," her son chuckled, looking all-superior in his black suit and vest, his tie a fashionable forest green. "Like you'd ever do this if you hadn't had _any_, even if it was _just_ three."

"I don't remember you becoming an expert on this," his mother replied snidely, Marshall almost wrenching her arm out of its socket as he spun her around his back, pinning her in something resembling a throw-down move before he released her. "You been testing the liquor at home?"

"Get real," Sam scoffed, having to raise his voice over the music. "I'm not saying it's a _bad_ thing," he told her. "You're more fun when you've been drinking."

"All right, man…" Marshall was politely firm even as he knew the statement to be true; Mary was not the definition of 'fun' and never had been.

"You think _that's_ insulting?" Mary wanted to know, wrenching herself out of Marshall's moves. "I hate to see how you react when he pulls that kind of smack on _you_."

"Whatever…" Sam shook his head, still grinning. "I'm going back to the table…"

But if Mary was going to loosen up, so was Sam and she snatched his arm just as Marshall had done with her.

"Not so fast, Smush!" she ordered broadly. "Humiliation's getting passed down here, and you're next on the list."

"Mom, come on…" Sam was disbelieving, rolling his eyes. "When I said you were being _fun_, I didn't mean dancing-fun. Honestly, it's getting kind of scary…"

But a strange _something_ floating inside of Mary, heightened with all the champagne and scotch mingling in her veins, wanted that dance with her son. Even if it was ridiculous and goofy, and even if she could've never pictured such a thing happening. Deep down, she'd grown into every other mother on the planet whether she admitted to it or not.

"Well, it's either me or Allison," she haggled in a last-ditch attempt. "I hear fourteen-year-old girls are aces at kissing, especially with tongue."

She wasn't even going to break character and show how ill such a picture made her, how she wished with every fiber of her being she had not created that image.

"_Someone_ needs to say they're uncomfortable," Marshall chuckled just as Brandi twirled their direction on Peter's arm, her skirt of shocking pink swishing and spinning fast in all directions.

"Shannon's, you're just standing here!" little sister clucked even still on the move. "Either join the party or get off the dance floor!"

"Option B!" Sam declared, and he managed to wiggle himself out of Mary's grasp and bolt back for the tables before she could stop him.

The upbeat, driving tempo of the song was beginning to fade away and Marshall didn't have to yell as he dropped his arms in a minimal amount of defeat. He squeezed Mary's shoulder reassuringly, even though she looked perfectly – okay, at least halfway to – giddy with her flushed cheeks and weird half-smile at Sam's departure.

"Ah…" he tried to brush aside. "He's a twelve-year-old boy, Mare," he went for consoling. "We're lucky we got him out here this long. Not to mention you."

"Yeah…" she was strangely breathless, feeling her heart beat quickly inside her ribcage, like it was taking place of the bass drum in the disappearing song. "It doesn't matter. I don't know what I was trying to do with him. He's right; I must be hammered…"

Feeling suddenly silly, she began to take the same path as her son and get out of the spotlight. She didn't know what she'd been thinking.

"Wait…" Marshall obviously didn't want things to end and reached for her arm again. "We were having fun…" he tried to convince her. "Stick around."

His blue eyes were large, round, and full of an odd sort of desire Mary wasn't sure she'd seen there before. He wanted it for himself as much as he wanted it for her, his fingers lying slack against her forearm; poised mid-reach and ready to reel her in.

But her gut was sloshing uncomfortably with all the movement, she felt dumb for having tried to sashay with Sam, and she was cursing herself for having drunk so much. It had made her feel clouded and suddenly uncharacteristically agitated. Or more so than usual.

"Marshall, give it a rest," she snapped unkindly. "I'm sitting down. You got your fun and games; leave me be."

He was hurt and Mary knew it, but being under the guise of the alcohol kept her from backtracking and she was almost fine leaving him standing there bewildered on the dance floor.

She managed to get to Sam's table because it was closest and in the most remote corner of her brain she knew she was doing it so Marshall could keep an eye on her. She sunk into a chair and sighed, not wishing to engage her son in conversation.

The lights had gone low on the floor in favor of a more romantic song and Marshall had gone to teach Ellie a few steps. Watching him with the little girl, Mary felt the most bizarre sensation – one she could safely say she'd never felt before. She adored Sam and she adored Jesse, but perhaps it was the lingering memories of James that had her wishing she'd been able to see Marshall with a daughter.

He took her fingers lightly in his, revolving her ever-so-delicately on the hardwood like the ballerina in the music box. It gave her pink skirt just the right amount of twirl, her sandy hair catching the glow from the bulbs in the chandelier. She beamed at him while Jesse got pointers nearby, the young lady reveling in the attention.

Marshall would've been the perfect match to have a daddy's girl. And leaning her chin on her hand, Mary's pitiful sadness came. Alcohol did really wonky things to her brain; it was worse than after-birth pregnancy hormones in the way she flew from one end to the other.

"Mom?" she heard Sam somewhere far off, appearing as just a hunched silhouette somewhere to her right. "Mom, is something wrong?"

She must've gone pretty funny in the eyes of her son with her uncharacteristic look of longing, and when she turned to him he was leaning on his elbows to get a good glimpse.

"You want some water or something?" he asked, remembering his smart remarks about her being drunk. "I can get you some…"

It wasn't as sweet an offer as it appeared, since there was a complimentary pitcher sitting on their table. Without waiting for a response, Sam took the decanter and filled a nearby glass, handing it across to Mary. She accepted it gratefully and managed some words.

"Thanks Smush," she took a swallow. And then, "Sorry about before. I didn't mean to get you all wracked with shame and sin asking you to dance. I was just trying to jazz it up, but I really suck at it."

Sam looked a little guilty then, even with his face dulled in the darkness; the only light penetrating from the floor beyond.

"It was stupid of me to say you're not any fun," he conceded with his nearly pitch-perfect manners. "Really, it was dumb. Did I hurt your feelings?"

Even after all these years, Mary wondered why Sam was asking because even if he _had_ hurt her feelings – which he hadn't, not really – he had to have known she would not fess up. It wasn't in her nature to do so, the façade she still put in plain view when she felt it was most vital.

"No Sam…" she shook her head slowly, liking the cool, pleasant flow of the water down her throat. "I knew you were teasing."

"Well…" her son shrugged, glad that was over.

His eyes strayed to the action going on at the dance floor; Brandi with her head on Peter's shoulder, Marshall guiding Jesse and Ellie into an acceptable, appropriate stance for the occasion, Allison swaying with her father Trevor. Evidently it was the last pair that caught Sam's attention, because it was of them that he spoke.

"I guess Trevor's part of the family now," he remarked. "Sort of. Allison too?" he looked to Mary for approval, taking a Hersey kiss from the bowl on the table and unwrapping it.

"In a way…" was Mary's partially tipsy response. "But not, in a way, too…"

_That_ made a lot of sense.

"What happened to his mom?" Sam questioned, his eyes still with Mary's new step-brother. "Trevor, I mean. Did she and George get divorced like Jinx and your dad, or…?"

"No…" Mary remembered this vaguely; surprised she was able to unearth it since her mind was so full of fluff. "George mentioned that she died awhile back; she had cancer."

Sam was curious, "Really? What kind?"

His mother gulped a few more dregs of her water before responding, the liquid of the earth helping her to return to normalcy a little bit. Although, with clarity came the realization that her head hurt and it made her stomach slosh even more.

"I think it was breast cancer," Mary told her son. "Jinx said something about it. They've been to visit her grave every year on Memorial Day."

Mary had always found this entirely insane, not able to fathom the new wife going to pay her respects to the old. But Jinx had insisted that since it was important to George, it was important to her, and she didn't expect him to just forget the woman because she'd come along. They could get through it together, she'd claimed.

"Wow," Sam obviously found this unusual too, which pleased Mary on some weird level. "That's pretty cool that Jinx would do that. I guess Jinx doesn't go to your dad's grave, does she?" the question prompted another right on top of it. "Have you even been there?"

Mary balked, not having expected such a thing to come up, and her emotions must've been written all over her face because Sam's inquisitiveness fell away at once and was replaced by large, sad blue eyes.

"Sorry, mom…" he hurried to rectify at once. "I forget sometimes you don't like to talk about him. You don't have to answer; I just wondered."

It was his understanding that made Mary want to reveal all, and the fact that it was easier when his face was half-hidden in shadow.

"Forget it, Sam," she said in a would-be-obliging way. "No, I haven't been – Jinx hasn't either as far as I know. His grave is in Oregon because that's where he died."

Sam nodded, "Oh" and left it at that.

Fortunately, there was no need for further discussion because one of the subjects of their conversation presented herself, breathless and radiating charm. Mary turned, and Jinx was standing there in her tea-length dress, perspiring at the neck but unrivaled elation seeped from every inch of her skin.

"Hi honey…" she greeted her daughter. "Can I talk to you a second?"

Mary was pretty much talked-out between Marshall and Sam, but she knew it was essential she indulge the bride, even if she might be tempting her with the lingering scent of champagne and scotch on her breath. Regardless, she nodded and stood from the table, only a trifle steadier on her feet. Sam grinned at the way Peter was tossing Brandi all over the place and unwrapped the foil of another Hershey kiss.

Jinx led Mary across the room, near the double doors so that they now had a side view of the action on the dance floor, but it was darker and much more secluded in their corner. However, most of the guests had thinned out; as it was getting late.

"What is it, mom?" Mary asked dully once they'd halted their march.

Jinx took a deep breath as though she was preparing herself for what she was about to say and yet the happiness still loitered beneath her determination.

"I just didn't want to get through the night without thanking you, Mary," she whispered, her big green eyes doleful and ever-innocent in their ability to be genuine.

Mary was thrown off guard and tried to come up with something satisfactory to say.

"For what, mom?" was all she could manage.

"Angel…" she reached out and patted Mary's cheek lovingly, a kind and sympathetic smile visible even in the dark. "I've been spewing my gratitude all over Brandi because she did the grunt work, but I don't want you to think I'm not thankful for you too…"

"Mom, I'm sorry about the suit…" Mary sighed, wondering if this was a round-about way of bringing that up again, glancing down at her attire with disdain. "I should've just worn the damn dress to the meeting and had done with it…"

"It's not about that…!" Jinx cut in quickly, hands fluttering about the jewels on her necklace. "I shouldn't have made such a big deal; you looked very smart and I was very proud to have you stand up there with me…"

In the back of her mind, Mary thought this was going too far, but at the forefront she appreciated the sentiment. It was nice to hear that her mother recognized her for what she was; Mary often felt Jinx had favored Brandi, especially when they were younger, but here she was making the effort to prove otherwise.

"Anyway…" Jinx persisted when Mary didn't respond. "You were my well-behaved girl tonight…" she gushed semi-condescendingly, patting her daughter's hair like a dog. "I appreciate it so much, sweetheart. Please know that, okay?"

Jinx was the only person who could make a plea sound like a request all at the same time, but Mary had no choice but to accept it. Looking at her mother's hopeful face, etched with the lines of the most intense joy, she couldn't take that away. Jinx was independent, sober, and thrilled to pieces – three things Mary had always wished she would be.

"Congratulations, mom…" she said throatily. "But you can tell me if I ruined things with my sour-sad-sack business," she offered lamely.

"Mary, honey…"

Jinx was almost pitying as she pulled her eldest daughter into her embrace, her way of acknowledging the somewhat-not-so-many-happy returns. Her mother patted her back softly like the parent she had become, assuring her she understood. She knew her child.

When they stepped apart, Mary received yet another smooth of her hair before the words came.

"You did not ruin anything," she promised. "Today would not have been the same without you. That's all I wanted you to know," she concluded. "It may be hard for you to believe that your presence means something, but it does darling."

Mary gave a sheepish nod and swallowed, wishing she had that water in hand once more. Fortunately, Jinx seemed to have finished.

"Now…" she fed her daughter a devious, conspiring grin and her eyes rested on the dance floor beyond. "Don't let the night be a total loss. Someone's waiting for you…"

With a very Jinx-like move, she bumped Mary's hip with hers as she tottered off to rejoin her new husband; duties and mission accomplished. Mary turned slowly on the spot and saw that the floor had cleared out almost entirely but for Jesse trying to sway not-so-dreamily side-to-side with Ellie. But the man who remained, slouched against the wall and watching the two kids, looked dispiritedly lonely.

Mary couldn't let that continue.

Gathering her courage, she began the steady walk to join him – the man she loved, the man she trusted, the man she'd beat up on tonight and so many other days, the man who continued to want her by his side day after day no matter what hell she put him through.

The song was slow, but not too sugar-sweet which Mary was pretty sure she could handle. Marshall saw her approach, and she loved the way his blue eyes glimmered even under the faint stage lights. He was studying her, calculating to see if she'd left her tipsy-brazenness behind to be replaced by her usual brand of snark.

"Hey…" he murmured once she arrived, shifting off the wall and onto the hardwood. "How you doing?"

Mary shrugged, "Think I'm up for a dance."

Marshall's pleasure might've rivaled Jinx's. He held out his hand and Mary let her fingers close into his, always feeling so encompassed by him when they were linked in that way – like it might be the only rope keeping them from being apart, but it was always strong enough to weather the storms that might fray its battered ends.

And yet, their hands eventually folded into one another, bodies pressed front-to-front, chest-to-chest and heart-to-heart. The slow, gentle cadence of their embrace meant they were not really dancing at all, but simply swaying serenely side-to-side, back-and-forth.

But Mary couldn't have asked for anything better, her arms splayed over his back, her chin resting on his shoulder.

"I feel like I should say something…" she murmured unexpectedly, lips barely moving.

"Don't," Marshall assured her from the other side. "It doesn't matter."

"It might…" she whispered softer still. "Since I'm like…the wedding witch in my funeral black."

Marshall gave a light chuckle, "Don't be so hard on yourself. I still love you…"

Mary remembered their conversation from before, couldn't help noticing the way his phrase trailed away as though he'd left something off.

"Still love me…" she repeated. "Anyway?"

She didn't have to be facing him to know he was shaking his head, knew what he meant just by the way he squeezed the small of her back with his long fingers.

"No anyway…" he reinforced, refusing to give up. "No anyway, or in spite of, or…"

"Marshall," it was Mary's least-obstructive interrupt. "Let's just go with, 'I love you too.'"

One hand left her back, found her cheek, and brushed the hair aside so he could turn ever-so-slightly and kiss her cheek. Butterflies, flocks of birds, and jumping beans, before he sealed the deal.

"No matter what."

**A/N: I am sad to report there is only one remaining! You guys have been incredible!**


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: This is it, folks!**

XXX

_Thirteen Years, April:_

Mary often wondered how the most commonplace of activities could be a comfort. They were the sort of things you took for granted as they passed in the day-to-day routine, the ones you overlooked, the kind you thought of as nothing at all. And yet, the feel of sheets against your skin, seeing a full jug of milk in the fridge, knowing there were reruns of your favorite show on TV – all of it was ordinary but otherworldly in its own capacity.

Tonight, it was the sound of Sam scratching his pencil from where he sat cross-legged on the chest at the end of Mary's bed. The gentle 'scritch-scritch' was something she heard every single night as he completed his homework, but this evening it mimicked her beating heart. It was a good thing too, because her effectively spoiled plans for the evening were making her more depressed than she wanted to admit.

"Sam…"

Even a three-letter word made her throat burn viciously, made her wish she had not said a thing, but she was always one to press the limits, especially when she wasn't supposed to. Luckily, her son looked up so she didn't have to say it again.

"Go back to the kitchen," this was accompanied by a nasty, disgusting cough which did not do wonders for her throat. "I really don't want you to get sick…"

"Dad said I should keep you company until he gets home from work," Sam shrugged casually, turning back to his math problems. "Since you aren't going out. I'm almost done though," he nodded at his paper. "But if you want me to stay tonight, I can. I've already seen the movie Jesse wanted to go to…"

"Smush, what would you stay home for?" his mother groaned, trying to use her tongue to speak rather than the back of her throat and slumping a little inside her pillow. "To gawk at the gnarly white patches in my mouth? It's not a pretty sight, man."

"I know it's not," he assured her. "I've had strep before. When I was six, remember?"

"Oh yeah…" Mary recalled ruefully, wishing she felt well enough to get out of bed and shower because she'd been stuck all day and was starting to feel seriously gross. "Jinx made you that organic oatmeal…"

"That was _revolting_," Sam's eyes flicked upward. "I felt like the flakes were coating my throat because she didn't cook it all the way through. You owe me for that one," he claimed on the tail-end, teasing.

"I owe you for nothing," Mary played along, hating the way the disease made her sound like a man. "Dad and I were caught in the nation's second dust bowl between Phoenix and Flagstaff…" she fought hard to press on, to not let the illness win out before she could finish. "The most you would've got from us is a very sand-infested return, which probably would've made you sick anyway."

She just barely made it and was forced to close her eyes, feeling the sweat perspire in beads on her forehead. Her temples were pounding and the inside of her throat was worse from doing so much talking; it throbbed ferociously in protest, like a thudding drum against her vocal chords. Reaching up, she raked her fingers through her hair hoping she didn't seem too pathetic in front of Sam.

"Sorry you can't go to dinner tonight," he expressed upon seeing this, putting his pencil down and reaching onto the floor for his backpack. "Since it's your anniversary and everything."

"Ah…" Mary tried to be nonchalant, but expertly inarticulate in her vocalizations. "When have you ever known me to appreciate some lovey-dovey evening – with the rosebuds and the wine and the miniscule, delicate portions of cake?" she croaked with as much disdain as she could muster.

"Still…" Sam swung his bag onto the chest and replaced his homework inside it. "I'd be disappointed, if it were me."

"If it were you, I'd be frightened," his mother tried to laugh which was a huge mistake; it was like swallowing gravel in the aftermath and she winced, putting her fingers to her throat to see if her glands were still swollen.

"I don't know…" her son was boyishly mysterious as he ignored Mary's pain. "When Megan asked me to go to her birthday party, she seemed into the flowers. I thought she was going to cry when I gave her that box of chocolate," he chuckled at the memory. "Even though she's not really like most girls."

Sam said that a lot when it came to the young lady he brought to the house more often than not these days, the one neither Mary nor Marshall was allowed to call his girlfriend. And his mother had to admit that she was a pretty good catch for her son. She didn't fawn all over the feminine aspects of life the way the typical thirteen-year-old would. She'd just started softball with the spring weather and could give Sam a run for his money on intelligence.

"What's she say about this mop you call hair these days?" Mary asked, reaching out and trying to snag his waves with her fingers but he was too quick for her all laid-up and rolled back to the end of the bed. "You really need a trim, Sam…"

"She likes it," he declared, leaning on his elbow and grinning at his mother. "She thinks it makes me look like I belong in private school, with a sweater around my neck, and competing on the rowing team when it's short."

Mary sighed, "You should talk to her about that."

"Yeah; I'll get right on that…" Sam rolled his eyes.

Mary knew the subject of his hair was not to be breached. Granted, it was absolutely gorgeous – thick, still incredibly soft and rich, chocolate brown without the red of its earlier days. But it was beginning to hang in his eyes and she was getting sick of watching him shake it out of his face like some poorly-trained television personality. She lost her boy beneath the curls.

"Only keep it that way if _you_ like it," she found herself suggesting, probably not for the first time. "Not for some chick whose name you probably won't even remember a year from now."

Middle school romances were not something Mary believed in, having watched Brandi suffer through so many in her teen years. Fortunately, Sam didn't get a chance to respond because both of them heard the front door which meant Marshall had arrived home. From the sound of it, Peter was in his wake, allowing Sam's departure for the evening.

"Hello-hello!" her husband called from behind the closed door. "Peter's here – lets go Sam!"

Mary was in no position to yell, but Sam picked up the slack, swinging his backpack onto one shoulder.

"Be right there!" he shouted.

Mary shifted even further down against the headboard, some strange part of her mourning her son's absence even though she was not supposed to have seen him all night since her and Marshall had planned to spend the evening on the town. She knew it was fatigue that was causing the feelings; the idea of being unwell making the situation seem worse than it was. That and the fact that Sam spent much less time talking to her these days.

But with the kindness that had resided deep within from the days of yore, her son walked around to the side of the bed where his mother was slumped inside and offered her a decent goodbye.

"See you tomorrow, mom," he told her, for he would be spending the night with Jesse for the first time in awhile. "I hope you feel better."

Beneath the bangs that were very nearly concealing his forget-me-not-blue eyes, she saw the hint of her sweet little boy and this prompted a tired smile.

"Thanks Smush…" she choked out and even though she did not want to make him ill, she took the opportunity when he pitched his head forward and kissed his hair. "Have fun with Jesse; don't be going over how to pick up girls."

"Doubtful," Sam chuckled and headed for the door.

Why did they need to discuss it when both of them already had one in some fashion? First Ellie, and then Megan.

"Bye bud…" was her final, very hoarse and painful reply as he opened the door and slipped out, but it was so pitiful he didn't even hear.

Beyond the wooden hatch, she could hear Marshall and Sam exchanging instructions and farewells, as well as Peter's faint, higher-pitched tone along with Jesse's. She imagined Marshall had told the brief guests not to visit his quarantined wife because there were no well-wishes to be had before she caught the sound of the front door opening and closing once more.

Waiting for Marshall, Mary ran a finger under her eyelids, knowing they were slightly watery from her pesky, persistent fever, and tried to sit up a little bit more in a half-hearted attempt to look awake when her husband came in. She'd woken that morning with a temperature of a hundred and three and the telltale cruel spots of yellow on the back of her throat. Her fever had pitched lower throughout the day, but the strep was only beginning and Marshall had tucked her into bed, claiming he was not the least bit upset their anniversary plans had been botched. She didn't entirely believe him, but felt too awful to push.

It was longer than Mary expected before Marshall finally arrived, but when he did there was a light knock on the door, which Sam had left open a crack. He stuck his head in, carrying an enormous bowl of chicken soup steaming on a tray, which explained the elongated absence. In a girlish touch, he'd added a budding flower lain across the top of the tray; Mary couldn't tell what kind from a distance.

"Ah!" he bellowed dramatically with a very cheesy, indulgent smile. "There's my woeful hot potato!"

"Mmm…" Mary growled irritably, wondering how much of that soup she would be able to get down without killing her throat.

She supposed the 'hot potato' remark referred to her fever, which was the first thing Marshall checked once he secured the dinner tray on the chest Sam had just vacated. He motored around to the top of the bed and placed cool, soothing fingers against Mary's forehead. She shut her eyes at the glaring contrast between their flesh, not wanting him to remove his hand.

"You're like a furnace, babe…" he reported. "You were down to 101 this afternoon; I hope you didn't ratchet up again."

"I'm all right…" she managed in a low voice, trying to avoid too much speaking. "It's just late and I'm kind of tired…"

"_Tired_?" Marshall scoffed disbelievingly, transferring his fingers to her throat and checking her inflamed glands. "Say it ain't so!"

Unfortunately, his sunny optimism made him inadvertently press against her throat rather than simply inspect, which made Mary feel like she'd just swallowed a glass bottle in shards. Her reflex kicked in before her brain did, which she regretted at once.

"Ow…!" she coughed, grabbing his wrist hard and yanking it away. "Don't!"

He covered his guilt fairly well, not attempting to remove her fingers curled around his wrist in a death grip.

"I'm sorry…" he whispered immediately, rubbing her hair and trying to comfort after his blunder. "I squeezed; I wasn't paying attention…"

"Never mind…" Mary shook her head, not wanting to worsen the evening with shame. "It was an accident."

A dull ache continued to pulse even after Marshall stopped letting his fingers stray to her most sensitive area, but he repositioned them onto her cheek, tilting her face this way and that, peering and quietly calculating her orbs of green.

"You're pretty glassy-eyed…" he continued to inform.

"You don't say," she whispered dryly.

"If you still look like this tomorrow, you might go in; they can give you antibiotics…" Marshall suggested, as though Mary did not know this already; he ventured back to the end of the bed to grab her dinner.

"Marshall, it's just strep…" she sighed, trying to shift herself into a semi-comfortable spot on the bed so she could sit up to eat. "You just ride it out; I don't need the drugs. They'll make me loopy…"

"Loopier than usual, you mean?" he quirked a naughty eyebrow, approaching once more with the heavenly waft of the soup.

Mary had never been so hungry and so afraid of eating all at once. She'd kept off food the entire day, little appetite and no desire to brave more swallowing than necessary. The glass of Spite had been bad enough, even though she knew if she decreased her intake she'd end up dehydrated and feel even worse.

"Just eat what you can manage…" Marshall instructed kindly. "If it hurts too much; don't bother."

"I already adopted that philosophy, doofus," his wife said in her lower-pitched male's voice, allowing him to arrange the tray across her middle.

She knew Marshall had made the chicken soup himself, and so she hoped she was able to enjoy it. The noodles were fat and looked juicy, swimming tantalizingly in the mix of carrots, celery, and broth. It beat Jinx's concoctions anyway, and Mary took care to blow on it before attempting her first bite.

"Mmm…" she sighed, halfway between a grimace and a moan of pleasure with her mouth full. "It's good…" she praised. "You're a hell of a housewife. Ever think about giving up law enforcement to pursue something on the cooking channel?"

Marshall just chuckled, flopping leisurely onto the end of the bed and sprawling out at her feet like a lapdog. He watched her eat, belly-down with his arms folded under his chin, his smile slightly hidden beneath his creased forearms.

Mary eyed him over the rim of her bowl; glance catching the flower he'd placed on her tray, which she noticed up-close was a white lily, its center bursting in shades of prosperous yellows and oranges. Its stem was a healthy spring green; beautiful in full bloom.

She set her spoon down and blinked sadly at him, trying to imagine what sort of man could look that happy mooning over his sick wife when their anniversary plans had been cancelled.

"I'm sorry about tonight," she voiced rather thickly due to the soup now coating her throat along with the white spots. "I hate when shit like this happens; I can't do a Goddamn thing; totally worthless…"

"Mare, come on…" Marshall interrupted, exasperation sneaking through his tone. "_Everybody_ gets sick. Even the immortals like you," he winked good-naturedly. "Besides, an anniversary is defined as a date that is observed on an annual basis because it is the same date as an important event in a past year. There is no rule saying you have to pull out all the bells and whistles," he spewed with his usual amount of knowledge. "We're together. What more do you need?"

According to him, nothing. It wasn't as if he'd have ever let her leave the house in her state, if for no reason than it would repulse the rest of the world having the strep-throat-ridden individual spoiling an intimate evening. His practicality – it killed her every time.

"I'm trying to remember the last time I took care of you like this…" Marshall mused when Mary didn't respond, rolling over onto his back and staring at the ceiling in thought.

As Mary didn't let such a thing happen very often, she figured he'd be hard-pressed to come up with a prior occasion, but when he perched up on his elbow with a look of comprehension, she knew he'd unearthed it somewhere.

"I think it was when you had your amnio…" he revealed, proud of the recollection.

"Oh God…" his wife moaned theatrically around another bite of soup, trying not to drip as she leaned over the bowl. "Like _that's_ something I need to be reminded of. Jesus…"

"It was!" Marshall declared, looking childlike as he faced her. "After much deliberation, you let me go with you and do the whole hand-holding bit…" he was nodding now. "It was to make sure Sam's lungs had matured in case they needed to induce you…"

"Yeah-yeah; we know the rest of the story," Mary groused with a cough that almost landed her soup back in the bowl, but she covered. "Do you have to bring it up?"

"Whew…" Marshall whistled, and Mary gathered from the look on his face that he hadn't thought about that day in a long time.

Mary conceded it had been quite a bonding moment for them, plunged into the depths of their early relationship headfirst. She hadn't wanted him at the appointment for fear of showing her vulnerabilities, her weaknesses; but she'd also been scared shitless and had almost made herself sick in all the anticipation and trying to keep it at bay at the same time. In the end, she bit the bullet and let him come.

"That was _not_ a procedure that agreed with you…" Marshall remembered, eyes light and lost in the old memories. "I felt so bad for you; you were nervous something awful…"

"Was _not_," Mary rebutted, despite her own stirrings. "I wanted you there to make sure they didn't stick that fire-poker anywhere other than the designated location."

"Yeah, sure…" Marshall scoffed.

And he was right. That had not been the reason he'd been invited at all. The memories were fuzzy and unclear, but the sharpest portions stood out like echoes and old friends amongst the rest.

"_They're going to hurt him…"_

"_They're not going to hurt him," Marshall whispered gently. "They're trained professionals. They checked, and the needle's not going to be anywhere near him…"_

_Her eyes were vast, completely massive as they tracked Marshall's. He could see how short her breaths were by the rapid rise-and-fall of her chest. He couldn't look toward the other end for anything and simply stood to be there in whatever aptitude Mary wanted him to._

_However, at this point it appeared even she did not know what she wanted._

"_Tell me what's going to happen again," she demanded._

_He'd gone over it many times the day before, twice in the car, and three times since they'd waited for the introductory ultrasound. Marshall strongly suspected she did not believe such a procedure was possible without harming the baby, but he was as patient as he could be._

"_All they're going to do is insert a needle in your abdominal wall to withdraw amniotic fluid," he didn't mention the size of said needle even though the prep was occurring right behind them. "They'll count to three before they start…"_

"_No…" she shook her head as well as she could laying on the table._

_This was the first time she'd interrupted in awhile and Marshall seized the opportunity to ask questions._

"_No what?"_

"_I don't want them to count," Mary decided. "Don't let them count…"_

"_Fine," Marshall was agreeable, feeling a little better now that she'd expressed some form of an opinion. "I'll let him know," a male was in charge due to Doctor Reese being held up in delivery._

_However, the words were barely out of his mouth before she nearly spoke over him, going on a mile-a-minute due to nerves._

"_They're going to hurt him…"_

"_Mary…" Marshall whispered, crouching on his knees so that they were eye-to-eye, face-to-face and couldn't be closer. "The risk for miscarriage on this is very minimal…"_

"_I'm not talking about miscarriage; I'm talking about _hurting_ him…" she emphasized angrily, and Marshall knew if he didn't talk her down soon she was going to cry._

_Unfortunately, the time had passed for mending any fences because the doctor was on the move. He was a pleasant-enough man and certainly knew what he was doing, but Mary's aversion to strangers didn't endear her to him. Marshall stood back up, so as to appear prepared._

"_All right, Miss Shannon…" the announcement came. "We're ready to go…"_

_Marshall had dreaded this part; the needle came into view, all ten inches of it and although Mary usually kept her cool, he felt certain she was going to have a stroke when she saw it. If possible, her breaths got even quicker._

"_Mary, look at me," Marshall whispered evenly. When she didn't obey, he was much firmer, "Look at me."_

_Her eyes snapped onto his and she blinked, fighting back the tears. Marshall absolutely hated seeing her like this. She'd been loaded with snark, cynicism, and sarcasm for the past three days since she'd learned she was stuck with the amniocentesis but all of it had vanished in the last ten minutes. _

"_Focus," was his command. "Don't even go there," he indicated what was going on behind him. "Stay here with me."_

_Stay here with me._

"_Okay…" said the unfamiliar voice. "You'll feel a pinch on three…"_

_Marshall remembered at once._

"_No – don't count her down," he was forced to whirl around to address him, hoping he didn't lose Mary's attention. "Just go."_

_Fortunately, their stand-in was sympathetic._

"_No problem…" he said. "Then just try to relax and take some deep breaths, Miss Shannon…"_

_Marshall locked her in, giving her his most penetrating, direct stare – his eyes never wavering or leaving hers. They were in-sync; merging as one and the minute they made it, meshing as a single unit, Mary fell into acceptance shut her eyes. Her exhales were slow and steady as she waited._

_Unfortunately, it appeared Marshall's instincts were slightly off because he thought they might be riding the wave, only to find Mary absolutely sensed what was about to happen without the countdown. Her voice was unexpected and jarring._

"_Give me your hand."_

_Marshall was lucky he was paying attention, because he didn't hesitate, snatching hers from where it rested at her side. There was a fraction of a second where her fingers trembled inside his palm until he recognized the moment of truth had struck – she squeezed hard, nails digging deeper into his palm. But there was no part of him that considered letting go._

_He could tell from her face, even with her eyes closed, that she was uncomfortable if not in unbearable pain._

"_Hang in there…" Marshall murmured gently. "You're doing fine; it's almost done…"_

_Granted, it was a long minute but there was no hiccup once the pocket had been found and the fluid was withdrawn. Marshall had expected her fingers to slacken once the procedure was complete, but she hung on as tightly as she had at the beginning. She did open her eyes though, which was a comfort._

"_Nice," their doctor said simply. "Just get up when you're ready, Miss Shannon, and we'll get you out of here."_

"_Thank-you," Marshall was polite enough to say as the man nodded and made for the door to get Mary's discharge papers._

_Marshall was grateful for the moment to be left alone with his partner, deciding not to mention that his fingers were growing numb. She was shuddering from trying to remain calm, her free hand rubbing the side of her belly._

"_You hurt?" Marshall asked, concerned._

_Mary nodded, "My stomach. It's really cramped up."_

"_I think that's pretty routine," Marshall informed her. "You were great. I'll take you home and feed you chicken soup," he teased. "Already got the afternoon off from Stan."_

_All she could do was nod._

"_You ready?" Marshall pressed when she didn't respond or move it all, wondering when she was going to let go of his hand._

_Now she shook her head._

"_Not yet."_

_Marshall was as tolerant as ever, and understood that his touch was helping her to sail back to earth. Smiling softly, he brought her fingers to his lips kissed lightly, patting their intertwined hands with his free one._

"_Good work, inspector."_

Marshall had taken Mary's hand lying atop the bedcovers, fingers curled and limp. Mary knew he had lost himself in the memory, and part of her had as well. It seemed like eons ago, and yet the tension that she'd had felt like it had settled into her bones. She knew it came from being sleepy and much under-par.

"You were amazing…" was Marshall's somewhat predictable response. "Made it through with flying colors…"

"Marshall, don't go making me bawl…" Mary wrenched her fingers loose, picking up her spoon once more. "I already sound like a drag queen. Your anniversary definition didn't include uncontrollable and imprudent sobbing either."

"Imprudent!" Marshall was impressed, perching his chin in his hands from where he was lounging at the end of the bed. "Big word for you, inspector," he decided, and Mary knew he'd used such a nickname thanks to their falling into old memories.

"I have my moments…" Mary griped, forcing herself to swallow another bite of soup but it really seared her throat and made her eyes water she was so sore.

She didn't want to give up on Marshall's meal, and he was still jabbering.

"And no plans for blubbering here," he claimed, reflecting on her prior request. "I was just thinking…" he flipped over onto his back again so that his head was near her middle. "It's interesting – the things you remember. The moments and the memories that stick out above the rest."

Mary pondered this while she tried to figure out how to make it look like she'd eaten more soup than she actually had.

"Hell, when you think about us…" Marshall went on as his eyes roved the ceiling. "Thirteen years together…"

"Just married," his wife corrected him, noting it was the first time she'd done so on this particular subject. "We've known each other longer."

"Well, we were partners for eight – give or take – before the nuptials," Marshall reminded her. "So that makes it…what?"

When Mary calculated the addition, she actually second-guessed herself, hardly daring to believe so much time had gone by. It didn't seem possible – she had to have over or underestimated. But the number that spilled from Marshall's lips convinced her she'd been right, even more so when he took care to look at her as he reported.

"_Twenty_ years?" there was the merest hint of a question in there. "Can you even fathom that?"

Mary shook her head, not knowing how to respond. How had their lives together progressed so quickly? She'd been having enough trouble coming to grips with the fact that Sam was a teenager, meaning they'd been sealed for that thirteen – but twenty? It was a lifetime; a lifetime that stretched far and wide, so beyond the usual expanse Mary thought people could legitimately stand each other.

What did it say about her that she'd managed – happily at that – with the same person for two decades?

"You done with the soup?" Marshall asked out of nowhere after his statement. "Don't lie," he cut in. "If you can't finish, it's not a problem."

The irony was that Mary could not actually finish; her throat was too scratchy and too inflamed and making such an effort was flushing her cheeks, causing her shortness of breath.

"Sorry…" she murmured for the second time that night, sliding the tray over while Marshall sat up to take it.

He was quick at placing it back on the chest, careful not to let his feet bump and knock it over from his former reclining position. Before he completely laid it to rest, however, he slipped the flower off just as Mary was snuggling deeper into her pillows and blankets.

Turning to his wife, he wondered how unkindly she would take his romantic gesture, even burrowed and sickly with only half her face visible. He went with a light touch and pretended to feather-dust her nose with the petals, which earned him a reluctant giggle.

"Don't…" she whispered, bleary-eyed. "Goading me when my defenses are low is not fair…"

Marshall giggled himself, halting his tickles and instead stretched up, brushing the stray strands of hair behind her ears. She reveled in it for a moment, moaning contentedly with her eyes closed and he stole away with the opportunity to place the stem behind her right ear.

When she opened up, it was with a reluctant, indulgent scowl.

"Take it out."

"My Hawaiian princess…" he teased. "Lots of people role-play on their anniversary," he decided.

"Only when they know they're getting in the sack after," Mary coughed, not bothering to remove the flower herself and turning on her left to place her cheek on a cooler spot on her pillow. "I didn't know you knew other methods of role playing besides Wild Bill and Calamity Jane."

"On the contrary," Marshall put on his best scholarly voice, inching himself up onto the pillow beside her so that their eyes met. "I have a whole host up my sleeve."

"Better save them for another night, doofus…" his wife whispered dejectedly.

A soft and tiny smile was playing on her lips for his benefit, but she mostly enjoyed just having him there with her. As she'd told Sam, it wasn't the romantic parts of an anniversary she enjoyed but she was pretty sure Marshall did and hoped he wasn't too let down they'd had to alter the plans.

"It is kind of interesting what you said…" Mary murmured in an effort to stay awake. "About the sort of things you remember. Thirteen or twenty years together and only certain parts make their way in after enough time…"

"I remember teaching Sam to ride his two-wheeler when he was only four…" Marshall piped up, looking absurdly lopsided as he copied her reclining position. "He got his shoelaces caught in the spokes, pitched forward, and got spectacular scrapes on both his knees."

"I remember that too," Mary agreed. "And when he thought losing your teeth meant you were losing pieces of your skull."

"It took some hefty convincing on my part to get him to believe otherwise," Marshall recalled. "Like Jesse and the three-footed monster in his closet."

"The one with purple fuzzy fur or the orange one that breathed fire…?" Mary yawned, determined to keep her eyes open.

"Mmm…" Marshall waved a finger, pulling his elbow out from underneath his torso to do so. "Sam made up the orange one when he was six to get Jesse to think the orange would torch the spooky purple one – Carrot Curtis was his name."

Mary chuckled, "Right."

"It actually worked, as I recall," Marshall reflected. "Who'd have thought?"

"Like me and Brandi with Biscuit…" his wife drawled without really thinking, too sleepy and with vocal chords too traumatized to really care.

"Yeah," Marshall took it in stride. "You remember that week Sam wet his bed five days in a row?"

"Ugh…" this did not help Mary's feeling of illness and she opened her eyes to fix Marshall with a disapproving glare. "Do _I_ remember? You were in Midland Texas, sneaky. You weren't the one cleaning up the sheets every night."

"But I _was_ the one who told you to wait until he was well into his third year before even broaching the idea," he sniffed smugly. "You don't stick a kid in underwear the week after his birthday on said year."

"You do if you're serious about him not being in diapers another second," Mary griped, and the agitation in her blood as well as in her chest made her cough.

Marshall tenderly reached out and brushed the hair that was fluttering in front of her cheek back into her mane of honey-gold. She'd either forgotten about the flower or didn't care anymore; because it was still there and Marshall couldn't help noticing how unfamiliarly feminine it made her look.

"Having to call the bomb squad and go in the bunker at the courthouse?" Mary brought up another in a soft voice, eyes flickering back open at the touch of Marshall's fingers. "How old was he then?"

"He was just a baby…" this was one Marshall would like to forget. "I remember he was teething because we had about sixty messages between us from Brandi while we were trapped since she was trying to figure out what to do for him."

"I felt terrible…" Mary admitted, her extremities trying to curl into the duck-and-cover position just at the thought. "We were together and he could've lost both of us."

"Yes…" Marshall was direct, nudging himself even closer so that their chests and legs were almost touching. "But he didn't."

That had been their mantra for awhile, what kept them from completely losing sleep at keeping jobs they adored and questioning whether they adored the work more than their child.

"He held your ice pack for you for about three hours when you busted your shoulder during that storm," Marshall swept in swiftly. "He was very proud of helping mama."

Yes, Sam certainly had been. Despite the fact that he'd only been five years old and shouldn't have had to deal with anything so horrific, he'd morphed into quite the little doctor when Mary had scarcely been able to move an entire side of her torso even after they'd fixed her up.

"Remember Jing-Jing?" she asked with part of a grin between memories, and Marshall smiled too.

"With all her bells, ding-dongs, and ringers," her husband teased, knowing how Sam's inability to say her mother's name at a young age had made her think of all those things. "Not to mention, 'Granola.'"

Mary chortled softly, "Grandma."

Sam's term for Carolyn had not come out entirely like the oatmeal treat, but it sounded a lot more like that than her real name. Fortunately, Marshall's mother had found it hilarious.

"Do you remember that year…?" Marshall elbowed up, peering down at Mary's shiny eyes, everything flooding in so quickly the longer he spoke. "We were at my mom's during the summer and Claire fell off the monkey bars?"

"What was she?" Mary screwed up her brain in an attempt to reel in the information but she couldn't do it. "Eight?"

"Yeah," Marshall surprised her with the fact that she'd been right. "She fractured her arm and she begged both you _and_ mom to ride in the ambulance."

"I thought your mother was going to hurl…" Mary said ruefully, allowing herself to slip even further beneath the edge of the blankets. "I couldn't believe it – Marshal's wife and three sons and she gets squeamish over broken bones."

"What can I say?" Marshall spread his arms out above her. "Woman has a weak stomach."

"Where were you again?" Mary butted in. "Why weren't you there?"

"_Golfing_ with Julian," her husband rolled his eyes, clearly regretting such a sport even this many years later.

Mary couldn't resist the opportunity to poke fun at the idea of Marshall in some pair of tremendously tacky plaid pants and a preppy polo, but the reminiscence ranged far and wide. Although the bed-ridden one had a painful gullet, a pounding head, and sweaty sheets, she simply couldn't stop the ability to spew forth more and more years of events – both good and bad.

Stan slicing his hand end-to-end across his palm in a bar fight gone bad.

Delia schooling Mary's former shooting ground in Mesa Ridge and giving Lala's old crew what for.

Sam's first few steps from the coffee table into Marshall's arms.

Forts out of the couch cushions in the living room.

Pirate's hats, cowboy bandannas, twirling pistols, and grappling hooks.

Peter's unfortunate incident with gallstones.

Getting the call from Griffin that Sarah had rear-ended a light pole after two weeks with a permit.

Sam's horrifying nightmare about Marshall dying and Mary packing up because he'd turned seven.

Wait. Stop. Hold on.

"What?" Marshall murmured upon hearing Mary's latest, halting the tangling he'd been doing of her hair and peering down at her. "What'd you say?"

He was sitting with his back against the headboard, allowing his palm to lie flat in her hair. He knew how tired she was and wondered if she might've slipped up.

"Sam…" she repeated without registering, probing his blue eyes with her green ones. "He had that awful nightmare where you'd died and I'd just left him to fend for himself. It was right after I told him that James had ditched me at seven."

Marshall shook his head, "I don't remember that. I don't even remember you telling him about James, but I know you did. Was I out on assignment or something?"

Mary thought, eyes skirting left-to-right and processing as well as she could with her head clouded. She didn't want to have to think this hard; she'd been enjoying the back-and-forth a lot more.

"I'm not sure…" she muttered hoarsely. "I could've sworn…"

And then it clicked – Marshall had not been on assignment, but the reason she'd thought he was with them was because she'd been dreaming about him too. She'd dreamed about him every night in those days, using his image, his floating face to imagine he'd been right there with his wife and son.

"You were in the hospital," she managed, feeling guilty for having brought it up, wishing he'd go back to playing with her hair. "Still in a coma. It was after I'd taken him to visit you."

Marshall sighed with the understanding, knowing she hadn't wanted to go down this road. They'd been comfortable sharing both pleasant and memories that were less so, but this qualified on a different level. It didn't need to penetrate because they both remembered it whether they wanted to or not. It was probably the first happening that came to mind when they discussed their time together, as sad as that was.

But Mary had always been grateful for Marshall's ability to side-step with ease.

"Speaking of the hospital…" he segued beautifully, Mary doing her very best to just let him keep going, to not interrupt and say she'd screwed up. "Something tells me you haven't forgotten the big event in the delivery room."

She could tell he was smiling even though she could not see him sitting above her. But she decided to play him first.

"Which big event are we talking about?" she clarified with about half her usual snark.

"I will grant you there were many," Marshall agreed. "On this front, I was thinking of when they finally told you that you could push."

"Some gift," Mary complained, allowing her eyes to close for about the tenth time when Marshall rumpled her hair again. "Never mind that I was ready for about twenty minutes before that. Nobody believed me when I told them he was going to come out all on his own."

"A common misconception," Marshall dictated. "He definitely needed your help, and not until he was ready."

"Yeah-yeah…" his wife moaned.

But for the second time that evening, she knew that he was right. The recollections, for Mary at least, were not as clear as they once were because she'd been trying so hard to stay focused but as with everything else, certain pieces stood out at the forefront like it had happened yesterday.

"_Mary, there are two ways we can do this…" Doctor Reese told her patient. "I'll let you decide to start out, all right?" she threw the question on the end. "Either we can just let things unfold – your uterus is going to do a ton of the work here – or we can coach you through some pushing."_

_Marshall was pretty sure he knew which one she'd pick. Mary was a worker, an activist, someone who needed to be in control. The second choice sounded like the one for her, and she managed to get this across somehow but Marshall was busy listening to instructions so Mary wouldn't have to._

"_Marshall, we usually count to ten here – I know she's not a big fan of that…"_

"_What if I did it?" he sensed they weren't going to give up on their common practice._

"_I can live with that," Doctor Reese nodded. "Mary, listen up…" she raised her voice and the woman nodded between breaths to show she could hear. "In about thirty seconds you're going to have another contraction – bear down and push for ten seconds, but don't hold your breath if you don't want to…"_

_Marshall had read about that part and was glad they had a more carefree OBGYN who was not stuck in the letter-of-the-law._

"_Take a deep breath, Mare…" her partner instructed, squeezing her hand and rubbing her back with his free one. "Concentrate; I'm gonna be right here…"_

_She did as he said just as the event was upon them, faster than either Mary or Marshall was ready for it. Marshall's advice overpowered that of the doctor once he realized, his excitement catching up with him._

"_Go-go – push-push…" he was calm as he could be, and then remembered he was supposed to be counting. "One…two…" he stayed even here as well, not wanting Mary to feel pressured, speaking very softly near her ear so it was background noise. "Three…four…"_

"_Keep going Mary – you're doing fine…"_

"_Five…six…"_

"_Good-good; couple more seconds…"_

"_Seven…eight…" _

"_Almost; then you can relax…"_

"_Nine…ten."_

_The minute his lips closed around the final count she released, trembling with the effort and allowing her head to fall back on the pillows. Marshall altered his stance for half a second and bent to kiss her forehead, to sweep her hair out of the way._

"_Good girl…" he told her sincerely. "Good girl; you did really well…"_

_Marshall really had no idea if that was true, but he had no intention of telling her otherwise._

"_Did it do anything?" Mary wanted to know with a gasp, barely able to get the words out._

"_Breathe…" Marshall soothed watching how fast she was panting. "Don't waste energy talking to me…"_

"_Did it do anything?" she ignored him._

"_Mary, it's kind of a two-steps-forward, one-step-back kind of deal…" Doctor Reese reported from the foot of the bed. "And it takes some practice at first, but you had a great start; there's no need to be discouraged…"_

_Marshall doubted this would be of much help to Mary, and did everything to prevent her being exactly that – discouraged – the longer the early morning waned on. He was floored by the way she held up, so obviously determined to save face and not come undone just because the results weren't coming as fast as she'd expect._

_It wasn't until they were a solid thirty minutes in that she pleaded with him, just fifteen seconds from another contraction._

"_Marshall, if you want to watch on this one you might see his head start to slip down…" Doctor Reese whispered in an undertone._

_He was sure she'd been so nonchalant to not distract Mary's focus, but she heard anyway and Marshall appealed to her at once._

_"Do you want me to look or not?"_

_He was up near her chest, still holding her hand; his knuckles turning white. She shook her head and bit her lip, and looked like she was about to cry at the suggestion._

"_Stay here with me…"_

_He could tell she was upset and hurried to ease her mind, "Mary, I don't need to see; I'll see him soon enough," he prattled, still rubbing her back with his other hand in neat, concentric circles. "Don't worry about that; worry about you…"_

"_Stay here with me…" she proved she hadn't been listening._

"_I'm staying here with you," he reinforced. "I'm not going anywhere."_

_It was that phrase that waited with them, the one that got them through what came ten minutes later in a rapidly falling heartbeat. To just stay – to have another, to not be alone. _

_Stay here with me._

The blunder of Sam's nightmare forgotten, Mary blinked at Marshall who was lying beside her once again. His face was the same as it had been those thirteen years ago – full of pride, of hope, of the joy of starting a new life with the woman he loved and watching her on that day and every other, never once forgetting how fortunate he felt to have fallen in this world with Mary and their son.

"It's been fun, babe…" he murmured, but referring to their ability to exchange tales of days past all night.

In an act of mercy, he slipped the lily out from behind her ear and tossed it to the foot of the bed. She looked like Mary again, even as he placed his palm on her forehead one more time, turning it back to front.

"But I should let you sleep," he finished his thought.

Mary shook her head, inching upward onto her pillow so that she was no longer buried and fixing him with the kindest, but softest smile she could give him.

"Stay here with me," she whispered.

Marshall understood better than anyone, and also marveled in the growth that had fostered inside of Mary since their rocky beginning so many years before. He wouldn't trade her sharp, quick-witted cynicism or sarcasm for anything in the world. It made her unique, and it made her human. But learning to let herself love, to allow herself to be taken in by those around her had brought about a change even Mary herself couldn't have predicted.

"I find it hard to believe a candlelight dinner could be better than this," Marshall informed her diplomatically.

"You're speaking my language," she claimed, and it was Marshall's turn to grin.

Slowly, knowing the risk, he slid himself all the way into her groove, and kissed her. Once at first, just a single flutter against her lips – but then twice, three times, and finally across her lips to her cheeks and back again, a hand running through her hair of its own volition.

The sensation, the fire that pounded in her blood made Mary sit up, wondering if she'd ever wanted him more. Marshall was at full steam ahead, fingers already sneaking their way to her thermal pajama top.

"You're going to get sick…" she slipped her mouth away for half-a-second to whisper hoarsely.

"Then you can be my naughty nursemaid…"

Mary giggled with full disclosure, but some remote part of her mind made her hand find his that was about to undress her and she linked them together instead.

"I love you…" was all else she could manage, feeling his heartbeat through his hand.

Marshall slid his lips off hers, smiling sweetly and staring – completely enraptured – into her gorgeous jade green eyes.

"Happy thirteen," he murmured, still with that lovesick grin.

Thirteen years of bruised knees, broken hearts, an embrace of bliss or one of sorrow, of guiding one to the finish line on any given day, of being alongside to sprint the marathon when the ticker tape was too far out.

Molding into heart's that beat as a mama's boy and a daddy's girl; the loss of a stand-up citizen and decorated US Marshal, and one almost more painful in a fugitive that passed with fabricated love and the term 'sweetheart' to float and take away the hurt in the dark of night.

To eleven days, two-hundred and sixty-four hours where existence came to a standstill; when there had been no today, no tomorrow, no next week, month, or year. When the ability to claw your way back to the bright lights of the future had never become a harder but more desperately attainable task.

Letting your past sculpt but not define you; to second chances and faith in a new journey, to hanging up a five-point-star with dignity, and believing the best of silly, sweet little sisters.

A spinning, twirling, whirling dervish hurricane of a little boy with downy, feather soft curls; bright eyes, a brilliant mind, and a big heart.

Of Carolyn and Jinx, Griffin or Julian, Brandi and Peter, a step-father, twins, tiny and goofy nephews to strapping young men, of a bear named Claire, and a boy named Jesse. Of Stan the Man and Sheriff Sam.

"Happy thirteen," Marshall said it again.

Two hands went to his face, to his cheeks, and two lips found his forehead and kissed – poignant and forever together.

Mary pitched her forehead to meet with his so that their eyes met their hands clasped together as one, and she whispered to the night.

"Lucky thirteen."

**A/N: THE END!**

**Believe me, friends, I am as sad to see this go as you say you are. Sam and everyone he runs with have been amazing for me; a world I can fall into and conspire with, spin webs, and take our favorite Marshal's to exciting new places never to play out on screen. It's hard to believe I churned out the first tale just a month or so after season four ended, and now here we are – five stories later and the show is going to end for good. I will miss it SO much, but am so excited for the finale this Friday.**

**Much love and thanks to my reviewers – Jayne_Leigh, henrylover94, Charming Gilmore Girl, carajiggirl, JJ2008, Hutch917, BrittanyLS, usafcmycloud, jekkah, RPenelope, tee86elle, and JMS529. You all are loyal and true and I appreciate you and your kind words SO much! I couldn't have punched out five of these without you!**

**Honestly, I don't see the saga continuing at this point. Short of killing somebody else off, I am out of ideas. However, I promise not to close the door on it completely and believe me if there's any way I can fabricate something else, you will be the first to know!**

**Thanks again, all! Load me up with lovin' for my final chapter! :D **


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